It’s an instinct. There was a flash and a loud report. The primitive superstition of his Puritan forbears was his; and before this the buckler of his education disintegrated. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger.
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