272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. Consider you’ve got resources deposited with me. 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. "It's more than I am," muttered Thames. Hurry to me, I entreat you. "Now, Sir, I'll trouble you for your coat. Why hadn't he admitted that he recognized the photograph? What instinct had impelled him swiftly to assume his Oriental mask? "Why?" asked O'Higgins. He had something across his knees. He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. .
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