“I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. There was a loose button on that coat, and I want to sew it on. It was enough that she witnessed it and could not go to him. Maggot, dealing him a buffet that sent him reeling several yards backwards. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Why do I want him so badly? Why do I want him, and think about him, and fail to get away from him? “It isn’t all of me. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. Still, she knew instinctively that all of Sidney Carton's life had not been put upon the printed page.
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