The door to the library burst open. ‘Dunderhead. On this side a flight of wooden steps, protected by a hand-rail, led to a door opening upon the summit of the prison. But she did not talk readily, and in order to say something she plunged a little, and felt she plunged. 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. Down that on the right the young culprit was dragged—along that on the left a fainting woman was borne in the arms of several females. ‘What, is Nicholas dead?’ He saw the two of them exchange glances and an instinct of danger rose up. Or else—Else it will be impossible that I can be his friend. A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world.
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