“There ought to be some means of getting at him,” he said. Most subjects of any depth were taboo between them, especially when they were in his convertible. “A thick-set, coarse-looking young man, Anna!” she exclaimed in a hoarse excited whisper. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. 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.
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