So he marched into the street, primarily bent upon making the favourable discovery. “I think,” he said, “that I am right. ‘It is not for myself, you understand,’ pursued the man, in an unctuous tone that sickened the general, ‘but for this poor one. Looking at this girl, a sense of failure swept over him. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. 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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