He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. And since then, he has openly avowed his determination of cutting his master's throat on the slightest inkling of treachery. "Oh! nothin' partickler—mere curossity," replied Terence. He was not in love with her en désespoir which, he said, was necessary if a man would marry without getting a dowry from his wife. 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. As she did so the preparation-room door opened behind her.
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