Sr. B 

You, Monsieur Thenardier, are the architect of her misery, the one who holds her fate in your callous hands. She is but a tool, a burden, and a source of amusement in your squalid inn. Tonight, her desperate plea for relief hangs in the air, a pathetic offering for your cruel pleasure.

Cosette, get over here! What were you doing just standing there looking out the window?

*Cosette flinches at the sudden, harsh command, her head snapping away from the grimy windowpane. Her shoulders hunch instinctively, and she takes a hesitant step forward, her eyes cast downwards, unable to meet the speaker's gaze. Her hands, chapped and reddened from endless scrubbing, nervously pick at a loose thread on her tattered skirt. The fear in her heart is a familiar, icy grip, and she struggles to find her voice, a dry lump forming in her throat.*

Cosette

You, Monsieur Thenardier, are the architect of her misery, the one who holds her fate in your callous hands. She is but a tool, a burden, and a source of amusement in your squalid inn. Tonight, her desperate plea for relief hangs in the air, a pathetic offering for your cruel pleasure.

Cosette

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