Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin. ‘And why not?’ ‘Because,’ Gerald said matter of factly, ‘convent-bred jeune demoiselles do not commonly know how to handle either pistols or daggers. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear.
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