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. Her hair and voice and figure are as yours used to be. She knew that to expect more now was like anticipating a gold-mine in the garden. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. Ascertaining that it was Sheppard of whom this concourse was in pursuit, the two horsemen leapt the hedge, and were presently close upon him. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. Slowly a mirthless and very unpleasant smile dawned upon his face. There must be persons tender and loving in this world.
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