I have been in torment all the while to know whether it was to Anna or to Annabel that you were making love so charmingly. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to make out the great shrouded shapes of the furniture. You told me he was going back to Newgate after supper, so I mayn't have another opportunity. And I have seen work by his pupils myself that struck me as being—well, next door to shameful. 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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