"Who is it, Bess?" "How should I know?" replied Edgeworth Bess. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. Picked up the photograph, looked at it, handed it back, and never batted an eye! The act was as clear as daylight, but the motive was as profoundly mysterious as the race itself. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. Hurry to me, I entreat you. Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing. They'll be back soon enough—or not at all. Ruth could tell the doctor; she could bare many of her innermost thoughts to that kindly man; but there was an inexplicable reserve before this young man whom she still endued with the melancholy charm of Sydney Carton. And now, when you come at last, you bring me this grandfather, and you dare to tell me I am like him.
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