’ Roding gave a bark of derisive laughter and left the room. She attempted by a sheer act of will to end the scene, to will herself out of it anywhere. “This is all rot!” he declared angrily. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. That blow made me a thief. 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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