“I’ve been thinking of you all night,” she answered. The man was thick set, with a bright roving eye. The wall of the sky, the wall of the horizon, the wall behind which each human being hid—the wall behind which she herself was hiding! If only her mother had lived, her darling mother! Presently the unhappy puzzlement left her face; and an inward glow began to lighten it. ” He took his place by her side, and they talked lightly of London, the shops and people. Getting back the ice was rather a serious affair. “I mean to,” she replied. 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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