Melusine was loath to admit how much more lonely since Gerald chose not to visit her. ’ The sharp eyes twinkled. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. “Alone, dear?” “Yes, aunt. A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. 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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