In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. 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. . ’ The listening soldiers began to snigger behind their hands. Mr. ’ ‘Uh-oh,’ came from her infuriating suitor and his eyes dropped to the weapon she was dragging from the holster under her petticoat.
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