” Annabel rose slowly to her feet, walked to the door as though to see that it was shut, and came back with slow lagging footsteps. . Here was an instrument which might be of the greatest service to him in accomplishing his design. “I forbid it!” she said firmly. 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 material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone. .
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