” Capes waited patiently. 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. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. She addressed her letters, meditated on them for a time, and then took them out and posted them. It was about twelve feet high, nine wide, and fourteen long; and was approached by double doors each six inches thick. How she had hated it!… All these mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot. "Strange!" observed the Master; "I thought he'd been at my elbow all this time.
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