Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. ’ ‘What matters it?’ cried Melusine impatiently. “I saw you in a sort of sloping, slippery place, holding on by your hands and slipping. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. B. I shall never come back. 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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