Then she shrugged. "His disguise was capital; but I detected it in a moment. "What does Mr. For fifteen years!—so long as I can remember! All I wanted was a little love, a caress now and then. I never had even a real doll," she added, as she snuggled the flea-bitten head to her heart. ” His face darkened. We shall expect you to tell us all what to wear. Then he turned with a fierce movement to take her into his arms. 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. See paragraph 1.
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