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He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had

never heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her

compassionate voice; he had never seen a face so tenderly

beautiful, as hers when it was confronted with his own on the

edge of the grave that had been dug for him. But, he had not yet

spoken to her on the subject; the assassination at the deserted

chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long, long,

dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become the

mere mist of a dream--had been done a year, and he had never yet,

by so much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of

his heart.

That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again

a summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college

occupation, he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on

seeking an opportunity of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It

was the close of the summer day, and he knew Lucie to be out with

Miss Pross.