She emerged with a white face and wide-open eyes upon a little, red-lit landing. He turned, expecting to see his wife. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work. She could not say a word, much less move. “Tut, tut!” he said. “And, after all, I am just one common person!” She watched the throb of the arteries in the stem of her neck, and put her hand at last gently and almost timidly to where her heart beat beneath her breast. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. “Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. He had found her in a communicative mood, and he used the accumulated skill of years in turning that to account. 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. But you need not fear,’ she added, shaking him off.
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