‘Why did he make me French, Marthe? Why did he give me this name of Melusine, and say I am born of Suzanne Valade?’ Martha looked at her, but her lips remained firmly closed. Carefully sustaining the child which, even in that terrible extremity, he had not the heart to abandon, he fell upon his knees, and, guiding himself with his right hand, crept slowly on. Still, she knew instinctively that all of Sidney Carton's life had not been put upon the printed page. She discovered him sitting upon the floor beside his open trunk. Wood hadn't struck me. I’m sick of this town and I can’t wait to get out.
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