" Pain was stabbing him, now here, now there; pain was real enough; but he could not establish as a fact in his throbbing brain the presence of his aunt in the doorway. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. There was a girlfriend who was mentally ill. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. He temporized, and the girl raised her eyes once more to his. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave.
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