" The little urchin set off, and presently returned with the sexton. " "If he had only been my father!—McClintock!" "God didn't standardize human beings, Ruth; no grain of wheat is like another. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. 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. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. He did not write this with lead but with his heart's blood. It’s a damned hard thing to do. But she had loved the man. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out.
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