She guessed Jack was having trouble finding the right piece of carving. There were no mourners. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. “What can one say?” she exclaimed. Entering the outer gate, and traversing the broad gravel walk before-mentioned, Jack ascended the steps, and was admitted, on feeing the porter, by another iron gate, into the hospital. ’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned. October arrived; and in another week the court would be sitting at the Old Bailey. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton.
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