He wriggled underneath her heaving body, pinned like an insect. He installed Anna in a comfortable easy chair, and placed his own between her and the door. Don’t leave me. 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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