“MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. Still, it was true about men. 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. Saint Giles's Round-house. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons. He leaned forward to embrace her. Wood could not avoid making a slight shuffling sound.
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