The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls. “I’ve been thinking—all the afternoon. 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. You would find things to laugh at even in Artemus Ward. It was a grand life. ’ She jumped up, and moved impatiently to the door. One doesn’t want to lose a grain.
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