"Mine died while I was over here. So it does. You know—if you want freedom. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. She had once reconciled in her mind that she was happy as long as she had him. ’ ‘Sir!’ came from Trodger, and the booted feet clattered off and out of the front door. Ramage demurred. 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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