It was just a chance that we in particular hit against each other—nothing predestined about it. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. Mere hangers on. I'll knock off at tea. Let's get one idea into our heads. The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. 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.
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