" "All right, Mr. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly. Jack turned away with an aching heart. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. She put her clothes back on, 118 lipstick smeared all over her face. “We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground,” she said. 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. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard.
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