As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her. Ann Veronica was carried off her intellectual and critical feet by it altogether, and applauded and uttered cries that subsequent reflection failed to endorse. Miss Mary to the life. Oh, John. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. “What a gloomy person you are!” she murmured. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. She went to her bedroom, but she did not go to bed.
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