’ ‘I am not the imbecile you take me for,’ Gerald said with dangerous calm. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. Where was the message? Where was Gerald? Until he came back, what was there for her to do? Eh bien, it made no sense to do anything. “Yes, aren’t they?” said Ann Veronica, after a thoughtful pause. For every Eden, there will be a serpent; for every sheepfold, there will be a wolf. Still, she knew instinctively that all of Sidney Carton's life had not been put upon the printed page.
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