He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. This is altogether insupportable. 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. A hand of iron fell upon the scowling young man’s shoulder. ‘I thank you. They were familiar but more massive. " "No doubt," rejoined Wild, with a sneer; "but don't let all the world know it.
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