The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. She was radiant. Voilà tout. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. She hoped fervently that Martin had not divulged his crush to Brown. If ever he requires my services, he shall find I'm not ungrateful.
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