I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. "You will make me the happiest of mankind," cried the woollen-draper, falling on his knees, and seizing her hand, which he devoured with kisses. "I tell 'ee what, master, if you're more fortinate nor I am, and get ashore, give old saltwater your fare. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. Wild's figure. There is a musical programme, and we have the windows open and blinds up, and a pink lamp shade over the piano lamp—a sort of advertisement of the place, you know. She let her mind run into dreams of that cloud paradise of an altered world in which the Goopes and Minivers, the Fabians and reforming people believed. The first Step towards the Ladder. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton.
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