’ Gerald turned and came back to her. “It’s—it’s a difficult question. ‘I am not a person, Marthe. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. 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.
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