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The Mohocks XII. She was as fair as the lily of the lotus. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. She finished the olive and looked up. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. Some one was standing beside him. . 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. “What else can happen?” asked Miss Miniver, with a little weak gesture at the glow.

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