With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own. Then, her body still tense with the atoms of anger, she sat down upon the edge of the bed and rocked from side to side. 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. “What on earth did you expect me to do, then?” he asked. He was bewildered. He then arose, and, taking a few turns in the chamber, stopped suddenly before her. You have neither reason nor logic.
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