No work that offered was at all of the quality she had vaguely postulated for herself. . . ’ ‘I am afraid that there is,’ Gerald told her evenly. I meant mischief. ” “You have it,” he declared confidently. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. Still, she knew instinctively that all of Sidney Carton's life had not been put upon the printed page. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. His analytical bent saved him many times, though he was not sensitive to this. It had ceased now, but as he closed in on the area, a faint muttering came to his ears. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one.
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