“Sold again,” she remarked. ” She said. Confound this slavery of sex! I am a man! I will get this under if I am killed in doing it!” She scowled into the cold blacknesses about her. No instrument I've ever used has done me such good service. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. "Granted it were as you say, Jack," said Wild;—"and I sha'n't take the trouble to contradict you—the estates would be yours hereafter. . I want to love him. I know you’re young but I think I, no, I know that I love you. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. 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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