"Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. "I don't know his name. Already Cosette was her chosen friend. Such ambitions as he had were stereotyped and material. People spoke of him everywhere as a young man of great promise, a politician by instinct, a keen and careful judge of character. "From Lady Trafford's, where I took the box. .
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