“Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. The light touch of Ah Cum's hand upon her arm broke the thread of retrospective thought; and her gray eyes began to register again the things she saw. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. Mrs. “Sold again,” she remarked. “If I didn’t love you better than myself,” said Capes, “I wouldn’t fence like this with you. 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. I had to go at a moment’s notice.
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