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. “You understand, then,” he was saying, “you understand?” “I understand,” said Ann Veronica, tear-wet and flushed with a reciprocal passion, but standing up to him with an equality that amazed even herself, “I understand. You have made your public, you are already a personage. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly.
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