If nothing else had clinched that, the purse had. She was unusually pale, and her eyes were brilliant. But she had loved the man. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. Here, then, but for the time and place, might be another Sidney Carton. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. To-morrow I am going to Paris.
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