The tables were then cleared. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. " "I don't wonder at it," rejoined Gay. 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. I only arrived when everybody was coming away.
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