She doesn't know the name Thénardier. She's never heard it in her life, that she can recall.

So why does it make her shiver now? Why does it seem as if the shadows of the room have grown darker, and as if something terrible is lurking beyond?

Something terrible is beyond. Her father nearly died. What could be more fearsome than that? Her nerves are unsettled. It must be that. They are unsettled, she knows that; she feels as if she can't bear another horrible revelation, and at the same time she can't bear any more horrible secrets kept from her; she feels as if she might scream, or fall to pieces, or faint if this awful day keeps going as it has been. The quiet morning she had seems years away from the afternoon's nightmare.

Her mother is continuing on, tossing wild accusations at M. Javert, laughing and speaking of political opinions. "Who -- who are those people? The Thénardiers."

It's only a name. It shouldn't feel like a stone falling from her mouth.

(She was already pale, with tears and with stress. She doesn't know that her face has paled further.)