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CHAPTER XXXI. The elusive Jane tapped her on the shoulder after class. '" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. . —I do not congratulate you on your success. I am the richest man in England. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. One small wing lay at the north of the gate, where Giltspur Street Compter now stands; and the Press Yard, which was detached from the main building, was situated at the back of Phoenix Court. 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.
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