Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. 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. From a bi-secting street came shouting and music. It might prove rewarding. ‘Yes, do,’ approved Lucilla. She took up the poker and stirred the fire vigorously. I would be too 222 busy protecting you.
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