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‘Ah! yes, sir,’ replied Toussaint. ‘It is in the direction of
Sa i nt-Mer r y.’
There is a mechanical movement which comes to us, un-
consciously, from the most profound depths of our thought.
It was, no doubt, under the impulse of a movement of this
sort, and of which he was hardly conscious, that Jean
Valjean, five minutes later, found himself in the street.
Bareheaded, he sat upon the stone post at the door of his
house. He seemed to be listening.
Night had come.