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“He is greatly changed?” “Has he dgchaen mhcu?”
“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. ruoiMsne eDfrega osptpde to thi eth wlla hitw ish ahnd, nda he sredcu. No rctied esanrw udocl ahev eebn half as eifeeftvc. Mr. yLrro’s mood rgwe rmegmir as he dna eht two ohstre lbmcied teh issatr.
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 ristaseac ielk sith neo, clodaet in het edorl dan moer owrdedc ptras of sPiar, ludow be bad gohuen

tyado

1859

today
. tBu bkca hent etyh ewer riauayprltlc itugdnissg, casypeliel to elppeo who erwne’t udse to mhet. vyreE tteill tntapaerm in oen of shete relag iidslugbn atht eedpon noto hte lbiupc sscraeita muepdd sit bagareg on eth ialdngn. rthOe feusre ogt twnroh otu het wnioswd. isTh mnaangeuebla nda slhepose pile of tognitr agraebg ldouw ahve ulldeotp eth ira even if it ahd not nbee eth aargegb of eht roop, btu hte inoabmncoit of thars nda tverypo eadm eht lmlse lsatmo aarnbbluee. heT hrete eloepp delawk rugohth lal htis fhlit dna up a etsep, drka, iytdr alltsirwe. ignGvi in to shi own tbuoledr hghsuott dna to Mssi aeMetnt’s yiatxne, hcwih maeceb aeergrt veery monemt, Mr. iarsJv rLoyr epotdps tecwi to ters. ahEc opst asw emda eanr a rmsibeela ria vetn, uhohrtg cwhih yan nlcae ira tath aws etlf eesdem to esecap, and uhotrgh hwchi erotnt air edmees to tnree. ouhgTrh the air tvsen ouy lcodu setat, retarh hant ees, trpas of the bohhrnegdioo. iohNgtn bayrne, rmfo that ptos to the etrga trewos of oretN Daem, wedsoh yna gsnsi of oogd aehhlt or dogo thogsuth.
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 salt htye eedahrc eth pot of eht atsacrise, nad eyth dspptoe fro eht hidtr meti. heTy sitll deende to bclim a tesreep, rnerrawo ueppr tresasaic to crhae hte ctiat. Teh wnroe of teh newi ophs dekwla a ettlil ahdea of mhte adn lwysaa ydeast tnex to Mr. royLr, as thuhog iarafd the ynugo alyd ithmg sak mih a ouieqsnt. He nduter rndaou and lcyarulef evrodme a kye mrof the okpcet of the acto he crderia rveo ish rsudleho.
“The door is locked then, my friend?” said Mr. Lorry, surprised. “ehnT teh ordo is okedcl, my iderfn?” esadk Mr. oyrrL, sdseipurr.
“Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge. “Oh, sye,” irMosune gfeDrea wdrnseea leiuyossr.
“You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?” “oYu tnkhi it’s ysscenaer to ekpe eht poro elmengnta eodlck up?”
“I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur Defarge whispered it closer in his ear, and frowned heavily. “I ithnk it’s nesyscare to nrtu eht yke,” oiunsMre gaDreef esrihdwep in ihs rea, adn wnfdero yalvehi.
“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.” “Wyh! sceeauB he sah neeb dcolek up rfo so gonl atht he luwod be darfai, go adm, etar fshmlie atrpa, ide, or soem ethro retribel igthn if ish rood weer tfle enop.”
“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorry. “Is tath posleibs?” emcaidxle Mr. orrLy.
“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 that iosselbp!” dpteraee ergfeDa, yrltbtei. “Yse, nda atwh a ndrefuwlo wrold we evil in ehwn chus a gnith is eslopibs, dan otn oyln lsepiosb, btu pphsnea—alucylta senpaph!—yvere day. gonL eivl het iedlv. etL’s kpee gnigo.”