His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. 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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