“Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over. From the centre of the ceiling hung a replica of the temple lamp in the Taj Mahal. She pulled her chair with a mild creak and marched towards the stair. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. “Some afternoon. ’ ‘Ah, but why remain penniless? After all, your grandfather Charvill—’ ‘Again with the grandfather? Mon ami, if you imagine that this grandfather will welcome a daughter of Nicholas Charvill, whom he has never forgiven that he married a Frenchwoman, then you have an imagination entirely wrong.
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