White will present her bill. At one time, she determined to go to Wych Street, and ask Mr. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. 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 travelled past the few idle sightseers who had braved the uninviting evening to see what the Suffragettes might be doing; they pulled up unchallenged within thirty yards of those coveted portals.
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