Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. And her mother, looking unusually alert and hectic, wore cream and brown also, made up in a more complicated manner. She put back her hood in a determined way. “Not to-night,” she said. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. "At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed. Make up your mind as to the terms, and I'll engage to find the man. Both girls looked pale and listless. Go for it.
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