He scratched his upper lip reflectively. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. 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. It could not go on much longer, her luck. They were only passers-by. Three cars were lined up in the driveway. A familiar figure was making his way towards them. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her.
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