m. Then she stood up and looked around the room. " "Keep it," said Trenchard, haughtily. The moral right of the author has been asserted. I thought—the papers said——” “You thought that I was dead,” he interrupted. 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. “Well,” she said. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers. She sat, crouched together, by the corner of the hearthrug under the bookcase that supported the pig’s skull, and looked into the fire and up at Ann Veronica’s face, and let herself go. “I throw it out in passing,” he said.
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