EPOCH THE SECOND. The signal of distress was evidently understood. October arrived; and in another week the court would be sitting at the Old Bailey. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. Ramage. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. These dinners, from their lavish display of ambiguous hors d’oeuvre to their skimpy ices in dishes of frilled paper, with their Chianti flasks and Parmesan dishes and their polyglot waiters and polyglot clientele, were very funny and bright; and she really liked Ramage, and valued his help and advice. A woman’s shoe lay on the threadbare carpeting. "You've given me more than the amount, Sir Rowland," he said, after he had twice counted them, "or I've missed my reckoning. Ramage seemed always fencing about the forbidden topic, probing for openings, and she wondered why she did not give him them. Her favor was sought beyond all women’s favors. "I thought you'd have got rid of your ill-humour by this time. He looked just as Julian had the night she had first met him outside the Joliet Laundromat.
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