Emile’s fist crashed into her temple and stars exploded in her vision. She bolted awake in the large bed which was awash in a sea of silks, furs, and red curtains. But a doll that rolled its eyes and had flaxen hair! Except for the manual labour—there had been natives to fetch and carry—she and Cosette were sisters in loneliness. "Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. My little maidservant will think that I am lost.
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