Every time that the wind blows it bears with it more of the dreams of men than of the clouds of heaven.
The realities of life do not allow themselves to be forgotten.
Conscience is God present in man.
Love is a fault; be it so. Fantine was innocence floating upon the surface of this fault.
Of a disposition at once unsociable and talkative, desiring to see no one, yet wishing to converse with some one, he got out of the difficulty by talking to himself.
Where there is no more hope, song remains.