It’s no good. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. Doesn’t matter a bit to me. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. "Can't!" repeated his mother. It surprises you. Still, she knew instinctively that all of Sidney Carton's life had not been put upon the printed page.
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