” She said, ignoring the absurdity of her own statement. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. Guns were impossible. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy. ’ Total bullshit, if you ask me. "What is it?" "Can't you see? Together, down there; you and I!… As my wife! Both of us, never to be lonely again!… Will you marry me, Ruth?" As many a wiser woman had done, Ruth mistook thrilling eagerness for love. “Pray accept my apologies.
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