"I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!" "I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper from her grasp. You know—I worship you. "'Sdeath!" cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. "Blueskin," said Ireton. “We’re here to take your foster daughter down to the station to ask her a few questions sir. He sat before a desk littered all over with papers and official looking documents. 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. “What made you think” he said, abruptly, with the gleam of avidity in his face, “that love makes people happy?” “I know it must.
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