CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. It was the gratification of an immense necessity. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. While he was thus standing, the flames of his house, which made the whole street as light as day, and ruddily illumined the faces of the mob below, betrayed him to them, and he was speedily driven from his position by a shower of stones and other missiles. They returned to the castle, neither of them speaking. "You!" cried Jack, scornfully. A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced.
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