The chair is in the veranda. 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. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. “Let us sit down for a moment,” he had said. ‘Gérard, do not go,’ she cried, breathless. ‘I’ve never found a woman who did not drive me into a frenzy of boredom. . He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. I keep on thinking of you. What might it have been?’ Mrs Sindlesham shook her head helplessly.
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