I did not reckon upon—him. “I will take a carriage,” she said, “and fetch my things. Daily contact with actual human beings all the more inclined her toward the imaginative. He's a nice boy, a good student. If you’ve got anything to say, you must say it to your aunt—” “But look here, daddy!” He flapped the Times at her with an imperious gesture. She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. 123 It didn’t take long.
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