” Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. Give me the books. Let me walk you to the door. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. This obstacle being removed, in his eagerness to proceed, he had forgotten to take his little charge with him. Milky sunlight spilled on the floor. Your aunt liked the pheasant. Still, she knew instinctively that all of Sidney Carton's life had not been put upon the printed page.
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