" "By no means," rejoined Wood, hastily. He stood away from her. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. 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. At length the task was done, and she jabbed the needle into a cushion, folded the coat, and rose. ‘I can manage now. Once more he was the searcher.
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