47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. We aren’t worth it. The boy was coming around. “I want you so much, Lucy. We’ll be somewhere on the floor above. "Where is he?" he cried. “You’ve interested me enormously. "What's all this?" exclaimed Wood in amazement. 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. The latter were saved; but of the former nothing but the blackened stone walls were found standing on the morrow.
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