Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. She drove me. “I am not sure,” Anna answered. ‘If, in truth, you are a gentleman,’ she said in a trembling tone, ‘you will move to the side that I may leave this room. He was wary of her, which meant that perhaps they had found one or many of the bodies that she thought she had hidden so well. Ill-drawn, without method or sense of proportion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn them out of yourself, notwithstanding your mechanical inefficiency.
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