Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. Still, she knew instinctively that all of Sidney Carton's life had not been put upon the printed page. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. Ah, Thierry and Poussaint, if my memory serves me.
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