Her heavy pistol came up again, although she did not rise. His appetite was perfectly Gargantuan. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. 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. Blackness was beginning to consume the cornfield.
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