I need only just jump up and throw myself upon you. “Excellent fellow!” he answered a little irrelevantly. He opened the drawer of the writing table. Stanley had never thought out. "Is she married?" he asked, after a brief pause. Presently repellance grew under the frozen mask of astonishment and dissipated it. But to go courting a slave-girl, at the risk of physical hurt! A shudder of distaste wrinkled her shoulders. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. 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.
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