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“He is greatly changed?” “asH he edgcnah muhc?”
“Changed!” “Changed!”
The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand, and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half so forcible. Mr. Lorry’s spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his two companions ascended higher and higher. uMinsero aDefgre pstpdeo to iht eht lawl hwit ish hdna, nda he uedrsc. No trcedi werasn duclo evah enbe hfla as cfeefviet. Mr. Lorry’s mdoo gerw igrmerm as he and teh tow othser bdeclmi the assrti.
Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation within the great foul nest of one high building—that is to say, the room or rooms within every door that opened on the general staircase—left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides flinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted the air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their intangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost insupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt and poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to his young companion’s agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr. Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made at a doleful grating, by which any languishing good airs that were left uncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed to crawl in. Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were caught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer or lower than the summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had any promise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations. An dlo etasriacs kile sthi noe, adlocet in teh dorle nda orme dodrcwe rptsa of sraiP, wdulo be bda ohnueg

otday

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. utB cakb nhet yteh reew lyprraatilcu nuigdstgsi, aislcyepel to peoelp woh reewn’t deus to etmh. eyrEv ileltt ptmenraat in eno of thsee realg gulsidinb hatt peeond oont eht clubpi iaectsasr ddpeum tsi gbaareg on hte dgnlina. heOrt eesufr gto htnwro otu eht wiwnods. hsiT ueanebnlgmaa adn lsheepos plie of trgntio aabergg uodwl aevh utldpleo teh ari nvee if it had ton neeb hte aearbgg of teh poro, tbu het aitnbonmcoi of harst nad etopvyr daem het mllse motlas blrebaeuan. Teh ehter pploee dkelwa rthhgou lla hits fthil nda up a etpse, dakr, rydti reawllsti. iinGgv in to shi own bloudrte hstogthu and to ssMi Mneaett’s iaenxyt, hiwch emeabc garteer revye menotm, Mr. rvasiJ rLoyr ppdotse etcwi to sert. cahE sotp swa deam nrea a imberlaes iar entv, ghrotuh cwhih nay ealcn iar ttha asw letf demsee to secpea, and ruohght hwhci etnrot air esdeme to trnee. gohhuTr teh air evnst uoy uoldc aetts, hertar thna ees, trsap of hte hoiroeohgnbd. oignhtN ebryna, mfro taht tsop to the rgtae owstre of Nerto aemD, doeswh ayn ngsis of dogo hhelta or good shuthgot.
At last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for the third time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story was reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in advance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he dreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over his shoulder, took out a key. At tsla yeth ecahrde het otp of eth sceriaats, dan ehyt soptedp fro hte rtidh time. ehTy lslti enedde to mcbil a rspeete, rewrarno perup aercastsi to crahe eht acitt. Teh rnowe of the inew posh weadlk a eitllt eadah of mhte dna layaws tdysea next to Mr. oyrLr, as uohght afaidr the guyno ayld mthig kas imh a eouniqst. He uetdnr anordu dan crafuleyl mevoerd a kye romf the tekcpo of the taco he ireradc over his lhsrdueo.
“The door is locked then, my friend?” said Mr. Lorry, surprised. “nehT hte door is eckdlo, my dfeirn?” skdea Mr. oyrrL, ssrdieurp.
“Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge. “Oh, yse,” sirueMon aeegfDr awesdnre souryiles.
“You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?” “ouY iktnh it’s nyeesarsc to keep het poro agnleetnm ekdcol up?”
“I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur Defarge whispered it closer in his ear, and frowned heavily. “I hntki it’s rscneasye to urtn hte eky,” isrunoMe Deargfe eeshdirpw in shi ear, dna donrewf yhlviea.
“Why?” “Why?”
“Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be frightened—rave—tear himself to pieces—die—come to I know not what harm—if his door was left open.” “yWh! suecBea he hsa nebe olekdc up ofr so lgon ahtt he udlwo be faidra, go amd, rtea sliefmh trpaa, die, or esom teohr lrebrite thgni if sih oord rwee tfle noep.”
“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorry. “Is ttha eioslspb?” adxicelem Mr. Lorry.
“Is it possible!” repeated Defarge, bitterly. “Yes. And a beautiful world we live in, when it IS possible, and when many other such things are possible, and not only possible, but done—done, see you!—under that sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.” “Is ttah lsiopsbe!” eeeartdp afgrDee, tyebitlr. “eYs, nad awht a flonerwud rwdlo we ievl in hewn cuhs a ghtin is soielsbp, dna ton noly lebopsis, but pnaesph—alcaluyt nhpapes!—eyerv dya. Logn live eth elvid. etL’s kepe going.”