She examined the philosopher's deplorable doublet attentively.

His garment was worn, and more full of holes than a stove for roasting chestnuts.

The girl made a wry face.

"Old rag!" she muttered, and addressing Gringoire, "Let's see your cloak!" "I have lost it," replied Gringoire.

"Your hat ?" "They took it away from me." "Your shoes ?" "They have hardly any soles left." "Your purse ?" "Alas!" stammered Gringoire, "I have not even a sou." "Let them hang you, then, and say 'Thank you!'" retorted the vagabond wench, turning her back on him.
The second,--old, black, wrinkled, hideous, with an ugliness conspicuous even in the Cour des Miracles, trotted round Gringoire.