It was open. Then Capes flittered to the hearthrug and poked the fire, stood up, and turned about. “It’s—private. Still, she knew instinctively that all of Sidney Carton's life had not been put upon the printed page. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him.
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