It was at his side below the breast, hidden by the dark colour of his close-fitting jacket. 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. But he was not a father one could make much of. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression. "I have killed you," cried Jack, endeavouring to staunch the effusion of blood from her breast. You give her a daub here and there where the rust shows. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own.
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