“He fell over at my feet,” she continued. The natural gaiety of the place seemed to have affected them both. ” He stood up and waited for her to move. Upon leaning back, he commented, “You look so sad. . ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. 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. A fortnight passed, then a month. You are captain of your soul; don't forget your Henley.
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