The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. The chair is in the veranda. I've taught him all he can do; and there isn't his fellow, and never will be again. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. “If only I could afford another!” she thought regretfully. She turned them down and gently placed the violin back in its red fake fur lined chamber. “His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing. She cried out in pain, then in pleasure as he thrust himself into her. 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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