"You speak English better than I do," said O'Higgins, as the coolies jogged across the bridge toward the gate. I can’t afford to get behind. Only she hadn’t. I'm glad of it, I'm sure; for it's all owing to him his poor mother's here. Now, she was the very reverse of all this. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. “Not possible. His vision was becoming accustomed to the faint light now and her features were clearer. 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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