"Well, how goes it?" he asked. . A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. "I'm afraid, Jack, you'll come to the gallows," observed the smith; "buth if you do, I'll go to Tyburn to see you. He was caressing an idea. 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. . ” “Impudent beggars,” Sydney growled. And now let's go back to the Shovels, and finish our brandewyn and bier, Muntmeester.
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