While involved in this crowd, near Temple Bar, —where the thoroughfare was most dangerous from the masses of ruin that impeded it,—an individual, whose swarthy features recalled to the carpenter one of his tormentors of the previous night, collared him, and, with bitter imprecations accused him of stealing his child. “Well, my girl, I wish you had thought about all these things before these bothers began. She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. “It means that I have had enough of this slavery,” she declared. “I want to speak to you about a little thing, Vee,” said Mr. White, my landlady, believes his story. He tore his gaze away, aware of the quickening of his heartbeat. 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 10:04:59