He had done this a dozen times on the way from his office. Martha said to me that it must come to the bibliothéque. I might as well try to build a ladder to heaven. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. 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. . Then he understood. They’re too free for their innocence or too innocent for their freedom. And when I ask you why it is you do so, you have no answer. They took her fingerprints sitting at the gray metal desk of Officer Nolte, the virile young buck who had brought her in. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. ’ ‘Assuredly there are many escaping from France at this time.
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