And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. You were probably robbed in Hong-Kong. Had she too been flying from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what frying-pan could be equal to this fire? All this led him back to the original circle.
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