" "You may spare me your compassion, friend," observed Thames; "I am falsely detained. I was looking for rooms last week. Well, my dear, it is time you stopped wallowing in your sorrows like a common wretch. ‘Oh, dearie me, I wish I’d never told you anything about it,’ lamented the nun, moving to the only chair the vestry possessed and sinking down into it. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. Shotbolt that if he, or any other person, takes Jack Sheppard before to-morrow morning, I'll double it. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. He can't play cards, either, when he's sober. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. She is very charming, and we all admire her immensely.
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