Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. There’s always friction, conflict, unwilling concessions. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. Some day she wanted to be loved as Marius loved Cosette; but there was another character which bit far more deeply into her mind. I was always told my mother died the day I was born. He had need of all the inexhaustible energy of his character to support him through his toilsome walk over the wet grass, or along the slippery ploughed land. She was no longer a confederate in that. Sensitive, aren’t they?” She chuckled.
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