The same old lines and verses, over and over, until there had come times when shrieking would have relieved her. Mr. You have made for yourself a unique place upon the stage. ‘I should not dream of forcing my attentions on you. Bah! She does not know me very well, and you—not at all. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. 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. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle. "I am one.
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