“You did your best to kill me,” he said. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. You’d think he wanted to meet the wretch again. 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. They had both been unsuccessful. These things illuminated her situation extremely.
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