’—he’s frightfully anti-Mendelian—having it all their own way. ‘What do you want with me? Why did you catch me?’ ‘You intrigue me,’ he told her frankly. 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. "As an honest Chinaman. Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me. ‘I just don’t understand you, Gerald. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious.
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