The movement was fatal to her son. “Stop,” he said. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. You’ve got to take what you can get. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. Something is feeding upon them. They hissed me!” “Beasts!” he muttered. 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. " A moment afterwards, they quitted the house.
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