“She has always worked very long hours as a real estate agent. Have you anything to tell me before you go?” Annabel laughed lightly. " "As you please, Sir,—provided you don't let him off. ” “Two years ago,” she answered. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly. Let me lie in Willesden churchyard. ’ At that, a flush drenched her cheeks and she snatched her hand away. 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.
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