The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale, but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm. She did not question or analyze the craving; she took the plunge joyously. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. They don’t count, and I don’t care. “Well, I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. “Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply.
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