"What do I care whether I am picked up to-morrow on the pavement of the Rue Plumet stabbed by my father, or am found within a year in the nets of St. Cloud, or on Swan's Island, among old rotting corks and drowned dogs?"
She was compelled to break off, for she was attacked by a dry cough, and her breath came from her weak, narrow chest like the death-rattle.
She continued,—
"I have only to cry out and people will come, patatras. You are six, but I am the whole world."
Thénardier moved a step toward her.
"Don't come near me," she cried.
He stopped, and said gently,—
"Well, no; I will not approach you; but do not talk so loud. Do you wish to prevent us from working, my daughter? And yet we must earn a livelihood. Do you no longer feel any affection for your father?"
"You bore me," said Éponine.
"Still we must live; we must eat—"