Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. Carefully abstaining from thrusting against each other, Ann Veronica and her father began an absurdly desperate struggle, the one to open the door, the other to keep it fastened. “But, forgive me, you are tired. I had done the most compromising things, and behaved in the most ridiculous way. I shall lose my fees and the laced coat. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school.
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