” “Oh, damn the thing!” Sir John exclaimed, tucking the loose ends inside his coat. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. Her father and her husband, who had both been a little pale at their first encounter, were growing now just faintly flushed. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens. Against the sinister, the threatening, monstrous inhumanity of the limitless city, there was nothing now but this supreme, ugly fact of a pursuit— the pursuit of the undesired, persistent male. Below the window he saw two coolies carrying a coffin, which presently they callously dumped into a yawning pit. “I think that you are very dense.
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