The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. Her eyes were soft and blue, arched over by dark brows, and fringed by long silken lashes. Again silence. 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 was faint from hunger, her head spinning into dizziness, the blood madness readying for battle. She’s taken my sword. ’ ‘Why must you?’ asked Gerald calmly.
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