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A Tale of Two Cities

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“A-a-a-business, business!” he urged, with a moisture that was not of business shining on his cheek. “Come in, come in!” “A-a-a-business, business!” he said, with a tear on his cheek that had nothing to do with business. “Come in!”
“I am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering. “I’m afraid of it,” she answered, trembling.
“Of it? What?” “Of ‘it’? Of what?”
“I mean of him. Of my father.” “I mean of him. Of my father.”
Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of their conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his shoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat her down just within the door, and held her, clinging to him. Concerned by the state she was in and by the gesturing of Monsieur Defarge, Mr. Lorry pulled her arm around his neck, lifted her slightly, and rushed her into the room. He sat her down just inside the door and held her as she clung to him.
Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside, took out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did, methodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he could make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to where the window was. He stopped there, and faced round. Defarge took out the key, closed the door, and locked it from the inside. Then he took the key and held it in his hand. He did all of this methodically, making as much noise as he could. Finally he crossed the room to the window, where he stopped and turned around.
The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim and dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the roof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from the street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any other door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this door was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way. Such a scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that it was difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit alone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work requiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was being done in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face towards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes. The attic had been built to be a storage room for firewood and other things. It was dim and dark. The window was actually a door in the roof, with a small pulley over it for lifting things from the street. There were no windowpanes, and it had two pieces that met in the middle to close it, like any other French door. To keep out the cold, one half of the door was closed tight, and the other was opened very slightly. Such a small amount of light came through that it was hard to see anything when one first entered the room. It would have taken a long time to adjust to the darkness enough to be able to do any kind of detailed work there. Yet, that kind of work was being done in the attic. With his back to the door and his face toward the window where Monsieur Defarge stood looking at him, a white-haired man sat on a short bench, bent over and very busy, making shoes.

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