“We can be alone?” She inquired. You do not love your husband, you have married him for a position —to escape from—things which you feared. 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. “Mr. Are you now satisfied?" "No," interposed Wood, furiously, "I shall never be satisfied till I see you hanged on the highest gibbet at Tyburn.
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