The world had grown dark and wide, and she was very small. 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. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. . “Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her. “Mr. There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. It is very bad. Ho-hum! CHAPTER IX The Hong-Kong packet lay alongside the warehouse frontage. ” She made some inane response.
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