“I’m not nearly so sure as you. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. Immediately behind this individual, came a pale, poverty-stricken woman, whose forlorn aspect contrasted strongly with his plump and comfortable physiognomy. I suppose it depends on her own state of mind. 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. Anna turned deliberately away from the bedside. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. His French is better than mine, so he knew exactly what he was handling.
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