“I wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell. He forced her arm back, away, stretching it out to keep the weapon at bay. “Please, Michelle, let’s not fight. 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 poison from the teeth radiated from her shoulder and paralyzed her limbs. M.
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