Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. Why wasn't the world full of love, when love made happiness? Why did people hide their natural kindliness as if it were something shameful? Why shouldn't people say what they thought and act as they were inclined? Why all this pother about what one's neighbour thought, when this pother was not energized by any good will? Why was truth avoided as the plague? Why did this young man have one name on the hotel register and another on his lips? Why was she bothering about him at all? Why should there be this inexplicable compassion, when the normal sensation should have been repellance? Sidney Carton. Some automaton within her produced in a quite unfamiliar voice the remark, “They’re playing football. ’ ‘Consider me warned,’ said Gerald solemnly. I’d come back from the ends of the earth. Well, my dear, it is time you stopped wallowing in your sorrows like a common wretch.
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