“Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. We’ll have some buttered toast. ’ ‘I think you understand me very well. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably. He knew it was unnerving, he did it to everyone, even his own kin. 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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