The thousand voices which a few moments before had been so clamorous were now hushed. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. ’ Melusine stared. Wood will protect you," urged Mrs. "Come Bess,—no whimpering. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. 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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