This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. “But, my dear,” she began, “it is Impossible! It is quite out of the Question. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. She refused coffee, though she knew that anyhow she was doomed to a sleepless night. The scrutiny of any strange man provoked a sweaty terror. She no more realizes what she has done than a child of eight. She fled. I can’t rest or work or settle down to anything while things are like this between you and me. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton.
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