He lowered himself onto her and entered her slowly, an inch at a time. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. And who is the man you are not allowed to marry? Valade, perhaps?’ ‘Dieu du ciel,’ exclaimed the girl, jumping up. ‘And, if this was not enough,’ went on the lady furiously, ‘you dare to say I am French. ’ ‘Your husband?’ Gerald tutted. 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. Spit of your mother. I cannot explain beyond that.
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