Lucia watched in fascination as Isobella nodded at her, only three years older than she, nursing her son with a contented smile upon her face. The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. Their heads touched again, their arms tightened.
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