Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. "I shall kill her if I stay longer," muttered her son, completely terrified. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. Still, she knew instinctively that all of Sidney Carton's life had not been put upon the printed page. "'Odd's! bodikins!" cried Jack, rubbing his cheek, "I'm in luck to-day. ’ ‘But I have told you not,’ she protested.
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