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"Be quiet, Jean Petitjean!" exclaimed the girl, giving him a mock blow. "Thou shall not hurt my father!" They laughed drunkenly and resumed the dance. The man with the older woman was not greatly to my surprise Jean Petitjean's companion of the night. The woman was addressing him as Raoul. She seemed trying to quiet him, for he was shouting boisterously as he twirled.
Her eyes were closed, her face as white as a dead woman's. White but her dress was blood-soaked, and there was blood on the sacks and on the stony floor. It oozed from her side, and her hand was cold as the rocks, and there was no flutter at her wrist. The bullet from Jean Petitjean's revolver that missed me must have penetrated her body.
Therefore it was that Petitjean's hearse-like cart was always a welcome visitor; one could at least be as sure of a just return for one's money in trading with a pedler as from any other source in this thieving world. In the end, one always got something else besides the bargain to carry away with one.
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