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His frail body was a slight target, so that the other's great lunges missed. Then, leaping like a puma, he was behind and under Jacques' guard, and stabbed him in the back. The great hulk of a man fell back into La Frochard's arms, the blood oozing from a cut that was not mortal though fearsome. The hag-mother wailed and crooned as if he were in death agony.
The old woman, who has been drinking, has unloosened her nondescript rig. The girl's gaze sees a well-remembered object. "My sister's shawl!" The blue eyes are gleaming now in astonishment with a hint of coming fury. She snatches the shawl from La Frochard's shoulders, fondles and caresses it. Then like a small tigress robbed of whelp she advances on the beggar, shaking her in paroxysmal rage.
What is her disgust then to encounter the wart-faced and moustachioed hag who is its proprietor! Quickly Henriette tells La Frochard of her information, and demands Louise. "I don't know any such person," the hag lies, with ready effrontery. "You must be mistaken!" But Henriette's eyes are gazing at the Frochard's neck, sensing something or other vaguely familiar.
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