She could even think of what had happened. ‘How the deuce did she get out without me seeing her?’ ‘Took advantage of the distraction, cunning little devil,’ Gerald snapped, racing down the corridor. Meanwhile, she was spirited away from John and bombarded by half-familiar people who attempted to chat with her above the roar of the crowd. ‘And this is where you have been all the time?’ ‘I would have been back in a day, I promise you. He was a philosopher. I can’t forget about your sister. 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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