For was not Gerald a gentleman? An Englishman, whose services any female—excluding her own self so idiote— would be very happy to have. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window. They found Ruth reading to Spurlock, whose shoulders and head were propped by pillows. 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. For a few days he was able to relegate his conscience to the background. She could not say who, not yet.
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