“I say!” he cried. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. John’s father piped up, bored with the conversation, and asked, “Where do you get your blue eyes, Lucy? What nationality are you?” “I’m mostly Italian, but I get my blue eyes from my mother, who was Gypsy. “Think of what people will say!” That became a refrain. ‘Suppose you don’t know what sort of proof she was after?’ he asked. ‘Keep still, for God’s sake! Hilary will send him off all right and tight, never fear. 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. Your speaking of the trial brings the whole scene to my mind.
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