" The Wastrel laughed. Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them. 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. Italians. “I don’t know, John. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed the faculties. Imbecile. There was a very substantial profit in the transaction, for he paid the natives in commodities—coloured cotton cloths, pipes and tobacco, guns and ammunition, household utensils, cutlery and glass gewgaws. ’ ‘But you must,’ Gerald said, quite as if he meant it. ” She turned a firelit face to her husband.
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