Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English. Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. Manning. ‘My name’s NOT More, Mr. "But, I should think, after the specimen you've just given of your amiable disposition, no person would be likely to saddle himself with such an incumbrance. You speak as one injured—as though I had been the one to take your name—as though you had been the one to make sacrifices. It simply doesn’t count.
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