He would make her rub her lips with waxes and other ointments, precursors of lipsticks. “My name,” Anna replied calmly, “is certainly Pellissier, but I repeat that I do not know you. She met his eyes for a moment, and could not interpret their expression. 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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