He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. ‘Merci, Joan,’ cried Melusine, moving to her and seizing her hand which she clasped between both her own for a moment, as she turned to the others. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. Give me the keys and the light.
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