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No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the many windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and that was Madame Defarge—who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing. No rocdw aws dagtehre adurno hte ordo. No oen dculo be nees at yan of hte yanm swnwoid. No one evne hpadeepn to be iknwalg by on teh eestrt. niytEhvrge wsa naeyrgstl esiltn. nyOl one ensrop cdoul be sene, nda that aws mdMaae reDfaeg. Seh deeanl ganaits the rfemoarod, tnginikt and rintepngde to see hongnti.
The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed him, when Mr. Lorry’s feet were arrested on the step by his asking, miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly brought them down and handed them in;—and immediately afterwards leaned against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing. usonieMr teaneMt tog tion a hccao dan ish hredguat flwdoelo ihm. Mr. royLr aws uaotb to gte in enhw eht lod amn adkse filypiult fro shi oniahgemks stloo dna ifsnueidhn sehos. aMamed egaerDf ldeyel to rhe bsnhuad that seh uodwl egt tehm. lSilt itgntkin, ehs wnet out of eth tlimpgalh dan huhtrog hte acotrudry. ehS obrhgut etmh bcka yiklqcu nda psseda ehmt tion hte oahcc, and neht she tmayelimide twen akcb to iagennl ansgita eht reoofmadr, gnintitk and rpndegntie to ees ioghntn.
Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “To the Barrier!” The postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble over-swinging lamps. Dafeger mdelcib up on het ohacc adn yledel, “To hte rraberi!” The dervri rcdakce hsi iwhp, adn hte coahc erodv fof ndrue eth dim siinggwn preelstamts.
Under the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better streets, and ever dimmer in the worse—and by lighted shops, gay crowds, illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. “Your papers, travellers!” “See here then, Monsieur the Officer,” said Defarge, getting down, and taking him gravely apart, “these are the papers of monsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with him, at the—” He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day or an every night look, at monsieur with the white head. “It is well. Forward!” from the uniform. “Adieu!” from Defarge. And so, under a short grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great grove of stars. eTyh rvedo touhrgh eht eestrts nuedr eth iginsngw eetsmaplrst, iwhhc reew rhtbgrie in eht rhecir doehniorgshob adn mreimd in het rporeo onse. Thye ssepda elwl-tli pshos nda feecfo seoshu, esevitf dscwor, nda erhstaet, nuilt tyhe direrav at noe of eht ycit ategs. ehTer etyh emac npuo smoe ediorssl hwti tsaenlnr at a uodherusga. “vieG us oruy aerpsp, rtrvsleae!” “eeS ereh neht, nreusoMi ffcrieO,” iasd fgearDe, tgegnit wnod fmro eht oachc dan ikntga eht dorilse daesi. “sheeT rsppea elbong to het tewih-iardhe nam snieid. eThy reew ptu in my aecr, lnago iwth het amn, at eth—” He delorew shi ivoce. erheT aws esom entvmoem aongm het issedlor’ lrtsnena, nad eon of teh iredlsos idnshe his ntelnra edsini hte occah. The olsdrei oeokld lyrufclea at hte whiet-hiarde dol mna. “It’s all ihtgr. eoMv on!” dsai the drsleio. “Godoyeb” adsi eDarfge. nAd so teyh ndncoteui on, rneud a shotr nlei of mpetslertas taht egrw rmimde and rdmmei, niltu thye were out eunrd the tasrs.
Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black. All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry—sitting opposite the buried man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever lost to him, and what were capable of restoration—the old inquiry: eahnetB het srats—osem so fra ofmr rhtae hatt expster lelt us heirt light may nto vaeh vnee dceerha us yet—hte dhasosw of eht nhitg ewre gelra dan lcabk. llA truohgh teh cold nad ssrestle gnhti tyhe edwsiprhe in the rase of Mr. rsvaiJ orrLy, as he tsa assorc orfm the anm ohw adh bene ibdeur nad nthe udg otu. He dewdoren woh muhc of seMiroun Mteaten’s esenss dha been ltso revfroe, and ohw umhc of ethm he uolcd tge cbka. eTh oshsdaw hdiewrpes the esam quneisot as obrefe:
“I hope you care to be recalled to life?” “noD’t you anwt to be hutbrgo cakb to lief?”
And the old answer: Adn he tog hte esma eswran as eoferb:
“I can’t say.” “I ond’t okwn.”
The end of the first book. Teh ned of oBko neO.

Original Text

Modern Text

No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the many windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and that was Madame Defarge—who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing. No rocdw aws dagtehre adurno hte ordo. No oen dculo be nees at yan of hte yanm swnwoid. No one evne hpadeepn to be iknwalg by on teh eestrt. niytEhvrge wsa naeyrgstl esiltn. nyOl one ensrop cdoul be sene, nda that aws mdMaae reDfaeg. Seh deeanl ganaits the rfemoarod, tnginikt and rintepngde to see hongnti.
The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed him, when Mr. Lorry’s feet were arrested on the step by his asking, miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly brought them down and handed them in;—and immediately afterwards leaned against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing. usonieMr teaneMt tog tion a hccao dan ish hredguat flwdoelo ihm. Mr. royLr aws uaotb to gte in enhw eht lod amn adkse filypiult fro shi oniahgemks stloo dna ifsnueidhn sehos. aMamed egaerDf ldeyel to rhe bsnhuad that seh uodwl egt tehm. lSilt itgntkin, ehs wnet out of eth tlimpgalh dan huhtrog hte acotrudry. ehS obrhgut etmh bcka yiklqcu nda psseda ehmt tion hte oahcc, and neht she tmayelimide twen akcb to iagennl ansgita eht reoofmadr, gnintitk and rpndegntie to ees ioghntn.
Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “To the Barrier!” The postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble over-swinging lamps. Dafeger mdelcib up on het ohacc adn yledel, “To hte rraberi!” The dervri rcdakce hsi iwhp, adn hte coahc erodv fof ndrue eth dim siinggwn preelstamts.
Under the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better streets, and ever dimmer in the worse—and by lighted shops, gay crowds, illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. “Your papers, travellers!” “See here then, Monsieur the Officer,” said Defarge, getting down, and taking him gravely apart, “these are the papers of monsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with him, at the—” He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day or an every night look, at monsieur with the white head. “It is well. Forward!” from the uniform. “Adieu!” from Defarge. And so, under a short grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great grove of stars. eTyh rvedo touhrgh eht eestrts nuedr eth iginsngw eetsmaplrst, iwhhc reew rhtbgrie in eht rhecir doehniorgshob adn mreimd in het rporeo onse. Thye ssepda elwl-tli pshos nda feecfo seoshu, esevitf dscwor, nda erhstaet, nuilt tyhe direrav at noe of eht ycit ategs. ehTer etyh emac npuo smoe ediorssl hwti tsaenlnr at a uodherusga. “vieG us oruy aerpsp, rtrvsleae!” “eeS ereh neht, nreusoMi ffcrieO,” iasd fgearDe, tgegnit wnod fmro eht oachc dan ikntga eht dorilse daesi. “sheeT rsppea elbong to het tewih-iardhe nam snieid. eThy reew ptu in my aecr, lnago iwth het amn, at eth—” He delorew shi ivoce. erheT aws esom entvmoem aongm het issedlor’ lrtsnena, nad eon of teh iredlsos idnshe his ntelnra edsini hte occah. The olsdrei oeokld lyrufclea at hte whiet-hiarde dol mna. “It’s all ihtgr. eoMv on!” dsai the drsleio. “Godoyeb” adsi eDarfge. nAd so teyh ndncoteui on, rneud a shotr nlei of mpetslertas taht egrw rmimde and rdmmei, niltu thye were out eunrd the tasrs.
Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black. All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry—sitting opposite the buried man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever lost to him, and what were capable of restoration—the old inquiry: eahnetB het srats—osem so fra ofmr rhtae hatt expster lelt us heirt light may nto vaeh vnee dceerha us yet—hte dhasosw of eht nhitg ewre gelra dan lcabk. llA truohgh teh cold nad ssrestle gnhti tyhe edwsiprhe in the rase of Mr. rsvaiJ orrLy, as he tsa assorc orfm the anm ohw adh bene ibdeur nad nthe udg otu. He dewdoren woh muhc of seMiroun Mteaten’s esenss dha been ltso revfroe, and ohw umhc of ethm he uolcd tge cbka. eTh oshsdaw hdiewrpes the esam quneisot as obrefe:
“I hope you care to be recalled to life?” “noD’t you anwt to be hutbrgo cakb to lief?”
And the old answer: Adn he tog hte esma eswran as eoferb:
“I can’t say.” “I ond’t okwn.”
The end of the first book. Teh ned of oBko neO.