It was a haunted place. " "You have extradition papers?" "What sort of a detective do you think I am?" countered O'Higgins. "Shall I help you on with it, Sir?" replied the Jew, becoming suddenly respectful. Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly. Besides, he might hear things. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. 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. Her face expressed nothing.
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