The aunt rushed over to her nephew, knelt and wrapped him in her arms. Last night there had been no time. He was an outside broker and the proprietor of a financial newspaper; he had come up very rapidly in the last few years, and Mr. The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. “Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. She felt he would tell people the way, control traffic, and refuse admission to public buildings with invincible correctness and the very finest explicit feelings possible.
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