Until the last moment she was afraid. I, too, want to understand—to walk with my head in the light. 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. The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face. " "I hope you never may, my love," humbly acquiesced the carpenter.
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