" "I'll give you something better worth keeping," she answered, detaching the ornament from her neck, and presenting it to him; "this contains a lock of my hair, and may remind you sometimes of your little sister. Cloud back of your hat!" He opened his eyes again. John’s parents were won over. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. The elastic spirits of youth resumed their sway; and, before the coach stopped, his tears had ceased to flow. It was open. He’s waiting. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. .
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