Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. ” “Blood of my heart!” whispered Capes, holding her close to him. Her eyes where glassy and shining. "Is it by lettin' you go, my darlin', that I'm to airn it?" inquired Terence. Afraid there'll be a love-affair. Spurling stood her negro attendant, Caliban; a hideous, misshapen, malicious monster, with broad hunched shoulders, a flat nose, and ears like those of a wild beast, a head too large for his body, and a body too long for his legs. 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. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things.
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