CHAPTER XXVIII. "Vill this do?" demanded the constable, taking the candle from the lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole. “And to-night we are friends?” “We are friends,” said Ann Veronica, and drew her hand quickly away from him. 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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