” “As you will, dear lover. She walked through the walls. " "Not now, my love—not now," entreated Wood. 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. Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin.
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