” She smiled. It did seem germane to the matter that so many of the people “in the van” were plain people, or faded people, or tired-looking people. 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. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. But I'll take care of her bill, if worst comes to worst. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. Murder had become nothing to her.
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