Lucy’s bright tones pursued her. “You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. "Do you think I'm afeard of a beggarly thief-taker and his myrmidons? Not I. My wife—killed me. You have friends, acquaintances, social standing, brothers and sisters, every advantage! Instead of which, you want to go to some mixed classes or other and cut up rabbits and dance about at nights in wild costumes with casual art student friends and God knows who. His sister followed. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. Very slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head. ” “Act two,” she continued. But to plunge blindly into the unknown!" "I had to! I had to!" She had told him only the first part of her story. 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.
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