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. He was staring at her, openly gaping. You want music. My wife—killed me. She foraged about in her mind for some satisfying equivalent which would express in English this gurgling drone the Chinese called a language. “Maybe I should have stayed home. If you can imagine it, I survived it. ‘Melusine, don’t sit there.
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