She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. Here, then, but for the time and place, might be another Sidney Carton. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. She had not even endorsed it. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. “I am exceedingly sorry,” he said. ‘Why, what have I said?’ ‘You said to me my name. . Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone.
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