"Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. After pursuing the fugitive as before related, Jonathan Wild returned to his own habitation, where he was occupied during the remainder of the night with Quilt Arnold and Obadiah Lemon in removing everything which, in case of a search, might tend to criminate him. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. 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.
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