She recognized him as the man who had blundered into the wrong room. “In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends. "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him. ” He got up and went to the guest room door and locked it. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. 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.
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