Every Bad Institution Of This

Waterloo Is A Battle Of The First Rank Won By A Captain Of The Second

The Wise Man Does Not Grow Old, But Ripens.

The Wicked Envy And Hate; It Is Their Way Of Admiring.

The Ode Lives Upon The Ideal, The Epic Upon The Grandiose, The Drama Upon The Real.

Slowly He Took Out The Clothes In Which, Ten Years Beforem Cosette Had Left Montfermeil; First The Little Dress, Then The Black Scarf, Then The Great Heavy Child's Shoes Cosette Could Still Almost Have Worn, So Small Was Her Foot, Then The Vest Of Very Thich Fustian, Then The Knitted Petticoat, The The Apron With Pockets, Then The Wool Stockings.... Then His Venerable White Head Fell On The Bed, This Old Stoical Heart Broke, His Face Was Swallowed Up, So To Speak, In Cosette's Clothes, And Anybody Who Had Passed Along The Staircase At That Moment Would Have Heard Irrepressible Sobbing.