The sky periodically pummeled her with hail pellets as she would pass through the deserted intersections. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. Why should I?” “At last,” he murmured, “at last I have found you. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. Why wasn't the world full of love, when love made happiness? Why did people hide their natural kindliness as if it were something shameful? Why shouldn't people say what they thought and act as they were inclined? Why all this pother about what one's neighbour thought, when this pother was not energized by any good will? Why was truth avoided as the plague? Why did this young man have one name on the hotel register and another on his lips? Why was she bothering about him at all? Why should there be this inexplicable compassion, when the normal sensation should have been repellance? Sidney Carton. “I’ll never be happy again! I hate you! But most of all, what you have made me! A flesh-eating demon cannibal, just like you! I should be dead, dead and lying at the bottom of the sea.
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