I have pleaded with her—no wonder that I have pleaded with her in vain. Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. 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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