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. "Come along, my sly shaver. I'm not sure I'd go out with him anyway. "Stow it, Nab!" exclaimed Quilt, angrily; "the kinchen's awake. You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. Then perhaps I shall send for him if he has not forgotten.
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