"Impossible!" echoed Wild, with a fearful imprecation. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. 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. " "You don't remember your mother?" "Oh, no; she died when I was very little. ” “And I,” Ennison said, holding her fingers tightly, and forcing her to look into his eyes, “I will tell you what I have wished for you when we meet six months from to-day.
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