Wood the carpenter. ’ Melusine shrugged. He touched her breast as if he was testing the waters of a cold lake. She reached the station, and mingling with a crowd of excursionists who had come from the river on the other side, took her place in the train unnoticed. 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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