Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. It could not be she who had done this. To the duckling, peas, and other delicacies, intended for Mr. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. “Who?” She asked.
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