Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. In this screen, which masked the entrance of a dark passage communicating with the Condemned Hold, about five feet from the ground, was a hatch, protected by long spikes set six inches apart, and each of the thickness of an elephant's tusk. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. Anna raised her eyes. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers.
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