He lowered his voice a little and leaned over towards her. 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. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. Austin, or any man of similar dimensions, would have found wholly impossible. Think better of it. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room.
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