“I thought I saw her in town to-day,” he said. By the time she arrived at the Beck’s doorstep, the morning was risen. He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. He began to talk again in quick undertones that she could not clearly hear. Supposing he too wanted love and his arms were as empty as hers? Some living thing that depended upon her. 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.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 30-09-2024 05:46:58