“Lady Ferringhall, sir. ” She said mournfully. Nowhere could he see that reaching, menacing Hand. For although I must confess it reads very much like an application or a testimonial or some such thing as that, I can assure you I am writing this in fear and trembling with a sinking heart. It’s no good hiding it any more. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. 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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