They had cried a little, both. 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. She was perplexed by this, and stood for some seconds in the empty street hesitating, until the appearance of another circumspect woman under the street lamp at the corner reassured her. When she awoke she felt as if she were adrift on a soft cloud through a golden sky. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. " "Better eat these, even if you don't want them," she urged. "Yes," answered the girl. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. ‘Here we go again.
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