’ ‘So you think she is an émigré?’ Lucilla put in before the incensed Roding could respond. She foraged about in her mind for some satisfying equivalent which would express in English this gurgling drone the Chinese called a language. The sense of publicity, of people coming and going about them, kept them both unemotional. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll.
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