" "That's what troubles me," rejoined Ben. 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. Wood. " The Wastrel tried to reach Ruth's lips. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. He’s been near it once or twice already. She knew that I cared for her, she had admitted that she cared for me. Come up stairs, and take a glass of brandy. Even though you cursed your own existence, I had not been so joyous in a thousand years! Finally, he took the family and remaining servants away to the Manor.
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