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At this epoch, Marius was twenty years of age.
　　monster headphones It was three years since he had left his grandfather.
　　Both parties had remained on the same terms, without attempting to approach each other, and without seeking to see each other.
　　Besides, what was the use of seeing each other?





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　　Marius was the brass vase, while Father Gillenormand was the iron pot.
　　We admit that Marius was mistaken as to his grandfather's heart. He had imagined that M. Gillenormand had never loved him, and that that crusty,marlboro menthol, harsh,newport red cigarettes, and smiling old fellow who cursed, shouted, and stormed and brandished his cane,wholesale newports, cherished for him, at the most, only that affection, which is at once slight and severe, of the dotards of comedy.
　　Marius was in error. There are fathers who do not love their children; there exists no grandfather who does not adore his grandson.
　　At bottom, as we have said,dr dre headphones, M. Gillenormand idolized Marius.
　　He idolized him after his own fashion, with an accompaniment of snappishness and boxes on the ear; but, this child once gone, he felt a black void in his heart; he would allow no one to mention the child to him, and all the while secretly regretted that he was so well obeyed. At first, he hoped that this Buonapartist,cheap nfl jerseys, this Jacobin, this terrorist, this Septembrist, would return.
　　But the weeks passed by, years passed; to M. Gillenormand's great despair, the "blood-drinker" did not make his appearance.
　　"I could not do otherwise than turn him out," said the grandfather to himself, and he asked himself: "If the thing were to do over again, would I do it?"
　　His pride instantly answered "yes," but his aged head, which he shook in silence, replied sadly "no."
　　He had his hours of depression. He missed Marius.
　　Old men need affection as they need the sun. It is warmth.
　　Strong as his nature was, the absence of Marius had wrought some change in him.
　　Nothing in the world could have induced him to take a step towards "that rogue"; but he suffered. He never inquired about him, but he thought of him incessantly. He lived in the Marais in a more and more retired manner; he was still merry and violent as of old, but his merriment had a convulsive harshness, and his violences always terminated in a sort of gentle and gloomy dejection.
　　He sometimes said: "Oh! if he only would return, what a good box on the ear I would give him!"
　　As for his aunt, she thought too little to love much; Marius was no longer for her much more than a vague black form; and she eventually came to occupy herself with him much less than with the cat or the paroquet which she probably had.
　　What augmented Father Gillenormand's secret suffering was, that he locked it all up within his breast, and did not allow its existence to be divined. His sorrow was like those recently invented furnaces which consume their own smoke monster beats headphones.
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