” Her thoughts went into solution for a time, while she listened to a lark singing. Your aunt liked the pheasant. “You shall,” she said. He fancied that when they had had time to reflect, they would regret it still more. Not a word had been exchanged between the two boys on the road. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him. They laughed and talked and stared about them. 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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