Her sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. ‘That will be very helpful to me. Solomon Smith, chapmen, (or what in modern vulgar parlance would be termed bagmen) travelling to procure orders for the house of an eminent cloth manufacturer in Manchester. Confound this slavery of sex! I am a man! I will get this under if I am killed in doing it!” She scowled into the cold blacknesses about her. “It was perhaps my fault. I cannot turn into a bat.
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