nardier, in a sovereign manner.
Cosette had dropped her knitting, but had not left her seat. Cosette always moved as little as possible.
She picked up some old rags and her little lead sword from a box behind her.
Eponine and Azelma paid no attention to what was going on. They had just executed a very important operation; they had just got hold of the cat.
They had thrown their doll on the ground, and Eponine, who was the elder, was swathing the little cat, in spite of its mewing and its contortions, in a quantity of clothes and red and blue scraps.
While performing this serious and difficult work she was saying to her sister in that sweet and adorable language of children, whose grace, like the splendor of the butterfly''s wing, vanishes when one essays to fix it fast.
"You see, sister, this doll is more amusing than the other. She twists, she cries, she is warm.
See, sister, let us play with her. She shall be my little girl.
I will be a lady.
I will come to see you, and you shall look at her.
Gradually, you will perceive her whiskers, and that will surprise you.
And then you will see her ears, and then you will see her tail and it will amaze you. And you will say to me, `Ah! Mon Dieu!'' and I will say to you: `Yes, Madame, it is my little girl.
Little girls are made like that just at present.''"