” “No doubt. 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. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. Prison was bleak without spaciousness, and pervaded by a faint, oppressive smell; and she had to wait two hours in the sullenly defiant company of two unclean women thieves before a cell could be assigned to her. Fritz flailed against his mother wildly, crying generous tears. ‘No, I do not go back. I felt—wrapped in thick cobwebs.
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