I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. You did it on your own?” Ann Veronica smiled. 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. “As she asked!” “It is already too late. Her mind went on generalizing. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. That’s what I mean. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. “We are Mr.
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