It was a night well-fitted to their enterprise, calm, still, and profoundly dark. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. ” “And you?” Annabel exclaimed. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s.
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