No Fear Literature: A Tale of Two Cities: Book 2, Chapter 10: Two Promises Page 1

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Original Text	Modern Text
More months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles Darnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he would have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with young men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a living tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for its stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not at that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had dropped out of Tellson’s ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a tutor, whose attainments made the student’s way unusually pleasant and profitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his work besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became known and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the circumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest. So, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered.	A eary dah geno by, dna Mr. leshCar Daaynr swa ttdseel in dalgnnE. He autgth eth enhcrF galangue adn slao dha lngeokwde of rhencF arieuttlre. aTydo he odulw heav ebne a osrerosfp, ubt ckab hnet he saw a rutto. He htguat ngoyu emn woh had teh feer miet nad ertntsei to ydust oreahtn ggnlaaeu hatt swa poeksn lla veor hte wolrd, nad he dlvdpeeeo a tatse rof tis doewlnegk nad tiorses. He lduco aosl tsertalan tmeh llew noit sngEhli adn rdae tmeh otu dolu in Ehlnsgi. olePpe tihw schu ksisll ewer ahdr to ndif at ttah imet. nMe hwo rwee enco repncsi, nad usopsedp to aehv mbecoe skngi, dhan’t neeb drfoec to rkwo as chesreta ety. No eundir oltniiby had engo rokeb, olst ethri nauoccts at oTsleln’s aBnk, nad ebeomc scook dna aecrptnsre yet. Mr. nayDar onos oeddvelep a ogod ruapnttoie as a utrto ohw made hsi ndtteus’s emti ilrtycarlpau talapesn nda fabciieeln, nda as a rlgcfaue rtrtoasaln how urobtgh neogmhist to his rtasltnoasni sieedbs awth uoy doclu dnif in a dcrainoyit. He ekwn the itsatiuon in recaFn lwel, adn eolppe in ndEgnla rewe omcnbgei emor and ermo nirttedsee in it. By oingkrw ysieelslrt, he was elab to kmea a ogdo ilgniv.
In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor to lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he would not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and did it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.	He hnad’t pceeedtx hgntsi to be aesy rof him in noLdon. If he ahd, he wloudn’t hvae dnoe so lewl. He adh ptexedce hrad orkw, adn he nfuod it. He ddi the kowr dna adem the btse of it, and by gnido sthi, ihs ssscceu utonciden.
A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a contraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in London.	He tespn a rtencia omautn of teim at gCrabeimd, ehwer he atthug tgaerneuarsdud. eTh ocshol oedelttra him as he tlreyesc ghutat oupanerE ggnleuaas, atdenis of eth loicfiaf rkeGe nda ianLt. He snetp eth rtes of ihs time in nndooL.
Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has invariably gone one way—Charles Darnay’s way—the way of the love of a woman.	owN, rofm eht igbgnnnie of tiem in eht nagder of enEd to het ectrurn, hhrsrae teims, a anm’s flei has aylwas gone in het emsa ndicoerti. hlrCase nDaayr’s fiel toko hte smae thap: he efll in olve hiwt a nowma.
He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice; he had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for him. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination at the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long, long, dusty roads—the solid stone chateau which had itself become the mere mist of a dream—had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.	He dah bnee in evol hwti cieuL Matenet ecsni he adh ebne on alitr for ish lfie. He ahd veern hrade a nduos so tswee nad inkg as eth ondsu of rhe veico. He adh nevre nese aoyenn orem leuuifabt tnha seh ahd bene ewnh thye met, enhw he wsa uobat to be exetecdu. Btu he dhna’t tdlo erh ttha he loedv hre yet. heT rdumre at hte mpety catheua, evro the tewra adn the lgon, sdyut rsoda fra aywa, had peapdneh a ryae ago, dan won fetl lkie it asw rtpa of a radme. Yte he llsti nadh’t omietdnne as much as a nlgsie rdow to ehr tuabo shi efgeinls.
That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation, he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.	He wnek llwe htat he ahd odog aosnres fro gkipene iuqte. It aws a meusmr day nweh he dveriar in odoLnn etal rtefa hctneaig at eth gceolel. He undtre het recron of eth eqiut etters in Sooh wehre eLiuc dan Dr. Mtaneet evidl. He aws ets on gnillte Dr. eaMttne ohw he telf ubtao Lcuei. It swa eth nde of a umresm yda, and he ewnk taht ucieL saw tou hitw iMss Psosr.

Original Text	Modern Text
More months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles Darnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he would have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with young men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a living tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for its stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not at that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had dropped out of Tellson’s ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a tutor, whose attainments made the student’s way unusually pleasant and profitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his work besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became known and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the circumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest. So, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered.	A eary dah geno by, dna Mr. leshCar Daaynr swa ttdseel in dalgnnE. He autgth eth enhcrF galangue adn slao dha lngeokwde of rhencF arieuttlre. aTydo he odulw heav ebne a osrerosfp, ubt ckab hnet he saw a rutto. He htguat ngoyu emn woh had teh feer miet nad ertntsei to ydust oreahtn ggnlaaeu hatt swa poeksn lla veor hte wolrd, nad he dlvdpeeeo a tatse rof tis doewlnegk nad tiorses. He lduco aosl tsertalan tmeh llew noit sngEhli adn rdae tmeh otu dolu in Ehlnsgi. olePpe tihw schu ksisll ewer ahdr to ndif at ttah imet. nMe hwo rwee enco repncsi, nad usopsedp to aehv mbecoe skngi, dhan’t neeb drfoec to rkwo as chesreta ety. No eundir oltniiby had engo rokeb, olst ethri nauoccts at oTsleln’s aBnk, nad ebeomc scook dna aecrptnsre yet. Mr. nayDar onos oeddvelep a ogod ruapnttoie as a utrto ohw made hsi ndtteus’s emti ilrtycarlpau talapesn nda fabciieeln, nda as a rlgcfaue rtrtoasaln how urobtgh neogmhist to his rtasltnoasni sieedbs awth uoy doclu dnif in a dcrainoyit. He ekwn the itsatiuon in recaFn lwel, adn eolppe in ndEgnla rewe omcnbgei emor and ermo nirttedsee in it. By oingkrw ysieelslrt, he was elab to kmea a ogdo ilgniv.
In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor to lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he would not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and did it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.	He hnad’t pceeedtx hgntsi to be aesy rof him in noLdon. If he ahd, he wloudn’t hvae dnoe so lewl. He adh ptexedce hrad orkw, adn he nfuod it. He ddi the kowr dna adem the btse of it, and by gnido sthi, ihs ssscceu utonciden.
A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a contraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in London.	He tespn a rtencia omautn of teim at gCrabeimd, ehwer he atthug tgaerneuarsdud. eTh ocshol oedelttra him as he tlreyesc ghutat oupanerE ggnleuaas, atdenis of eth loicfiaf rkeGe nda ianLt. He snetp eth rtes of ihs time in nndooL.
Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has invariably gone one way—Charles Darnay’s way—the way of the love of a woman.	owN, rofm eht igbgnnnie of tiem in eht nagder of enEd to het ectrurn, hhrsrae teims, a anm’s flei has aylwas gone in het emsa ndicoerti. hlrCase nDaayr’s fiel toko hte smae thap: he efll in olve hiwt a nowma.
He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice; he had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for him. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination at the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long, long, dusty roads—the solid stone chateau which had itself become the mere mist of a dream—had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.	He dah bnee in evol hwti cieuL Matenet ecsni he adh ebne on alitr for ish lfie. He ahd veern hrade a nduos so tswee nad inkg as eth ondsu of rhe veico. He adh nevre nese aoyenn orem leuuifabt tnha seh ahd bene ewnh thye met, enhw he wsa uobat to be exetecdu. Btu he dhna’t tdlo erh ttha he loedv hre yet. heT rdumre at hte mpety catheua, evro the tewra adn the lgon, sdyut rsoda fra aywa, had peapdneh a ryae ago, dan won fetl lkie it asw rtpa of a radme. Yte he llsti nadh’t omietdnne as much as a nlgsie rdow to ehr tuabo shi efgeinls.
That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation, he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.	He wnek llwe htat he ahd odog aosnres fro gkipene iuqte. It aws a meusmr day nweh he dveriar in odoLnn etal rtefa hctneaig at eth gceolel. He undtre het recron of eth eqiut etters in Sooh wehre eLiuc dan Dr. Mtaneet evidl. He aws ets on gnillte Dr. eaMttne ohw he telf ubtao Lcuei. It swa eth nde of a umresm yda, and he ewnk taht ucieL saw tou hitw iMss Psosr.