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But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. 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. This girl whom he had met by chance and befriended had done both. No, I don't, either; because——" "Well, Winny?" "I don't know what I was going to say," she added, in some confusion; "only I'm sorry you were born a gentleman. Kneebone, I came hither as your guest. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. Ruth could not be told now. “Of course, I remember now.
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