ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. Threw it out. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. I'll lay my life he's gone. Wagner had just been in love when he wrote it all. For a moment her thoughts led her back to the evening when she and Courtlaw had stood together before the window of her studio in Paris, before the coming of Sir John had made so many changes in her life. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. I have told you.
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