“How dare you!” she panted, with her world screaming and grimacing insult at her. ‘Now what?’ The girl’s voice was shaking, and there were, he saw now, angry tears in her eyes. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on. “One has to live and learn,” she remarked, with a passable imitation of her father’s manner. ” She was cowed by the three dead faces that seemed to scream at her to restore order by any means possible, even if it meant forgetting the children of the whore and all the events that had led to her unfortunate situation. 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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