She could not resist enduing persons she met with the noble attributes of the fictional characters.

We all did that in our youth, when first we came upon a fine story; else we were worthless metal indeed.

So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else.
Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thenardiers.
That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them.

Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll.
Dolls.

Ruth's gaze wandered from the printed page.