He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. 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. But Jack was too nimble for him. If such a thing in connexion with him had been possible they would have declared that he was in a towering rage. "You are my prisoner.
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