Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door. “Miss Pellissier,” he said, “these gentlemen are your friends, and therefore they are my friends. “I say, Vee. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. You see, I’m separated from my wife. 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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