She lost it in the Mint. She had pushed aside her azure veil, taken off her snow-glasses, and sat smiling under her hand at the shining glories—the lit cornices, the blue shadows, the softly rounded, enormous snow masses, the deep places full of quivering luminosity—of the Taschhorn and Dom. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. “The man is dangerous. Still, she knew instinctively that all of Sidney Carton's life had not been put upon the printed page. We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe. The doctor had sown a seed, carelessly.
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