She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. 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. I will be as silent as the grave. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. "Then you ought to be thankful to me for the warning. ’ ‘Aha, you have found something out. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Both Spurlock and McClintock stood by their chairs until she was gone.
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