"Auntie?" he cried. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. “Then you—you will?” A long pause.
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