In the midst of the holy place, which he had formerly profaned, lay the body of his unfortunate mother, and he could not help looking upon her untimely end as the retributive vengeance of Heaven for the crime he had committed. Would it be Thérèse?’ She shook her head. Its walled heaved with black mildew and sea-salt. “We sent for you several hours ago,” he remarked. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. For a moment O'Higgins had hoped that the ink applications would be recent. The cry was echoed by twenty different voices. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts. He grunted, and his grip gave. 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.
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