" "Mend!" echoed Mrs. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. So Michelle’s plans were to out her in front of an audience. 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. ’ ‘No, you are a gentleman,’ she agreed. The man was my husband. “Go to London,” said Ann Veronica. .
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