“Dear friend,” she said, “remember that you are speaking to one who has failed in the only serious object which she has ever sought to accomplish. How many nuns were there in England who might have occasion to spy on Lady Bicknacre’s ballroom? The presence of the French refugees took on greater significance. Let me keep you from that man’s clutches. Swiftly she ran her hands over the carvings, trying to find the lever to the secret panel again. I trust that she will not misunderstand me. It was horrible. H’m. It is she that I must see. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. G. Sebastian crouched on the floor with a single dead victim, a young highwayman.
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