Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. Her father—man of rock—had never needed her, whereas Hoddy, even if he did not love her, would always be needing her. It took Marina in three days. "I told you that before," rejoined Wood, testily. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. It was Celeste’s idea.
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