And she had not dressed herself in this habit of a blue so much like the sky just for his sake, no matter that Lucy had said how much this colour suited with her eyes. 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. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. ” He replied lightly and stepped towards her.
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