" Mr. There must be real Valjeans, else how could authors write about them? Supposing some day she met one of these astonishing creators, who could make one cry and laugh and forget, who could thrill one with love and anger and tenderness? Most of us have witnessed carnivals. While waiting for his coming she had stated her present and future relations with him with what had seemed to her the most satisfactory lucidity and completeness. But on Sunday he had been obliged to attend to certain matters for the nuns. She had been carrying them, he assumed, but then again the school had some particularly talented kids among the usual ruffians. That’s who you ought to go and see, miss. There are boats on the lake and shady depths and wildernesses of pine-wood. And I want you for myself—for my wife. ” “Oh, you mean Mr.
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