What a heat that news had wrought. 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. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. I’m fine. ‘You do not know how I am like my mother. But here was new music, tender and kindly and whimsical, that first roved to and fro in the mind and then cuddled up in the heart. You seemed, he thought, to have some grievance which you would not explain and which he thought must arise from a misunderstanding.
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