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The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the ground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly, and cried: ehT tcoord sta cgfian waya ofrm hmi, thwi hsi eesy on eth ungrod. reftA Mr. Dryana adh aids tseeh tsla swrod, Dr. Maneett dehtcster uto sih dhna aniag qiykcul nda adis:
“Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!” “noD’t seakp of htat, irs! eLvae tath olane! I beg oyu, ndo’t ribgn thta up!”
His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles Darnay’s ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had extended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter so received it, and remained silent. It esnuodd so mhcu keil he asw lucytala inygrc tuo in napi htta raleCsh nDyaar’s resa angr glon trfae he dha tpepdso. He edrsgetu wtih hte nahd he dha rdehcae out waotdr him. He esmdee to be nsakig ayDnra to seupa. Mr. aDrany ospepdt seinkapg.
“I ask your pardon,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some moments. “I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.” “I’m oryrs,” asid eth drctoo qteyuil erfta a wileh. “I don’t oudtb taht yuo vloe icuLe. You oulhds be hpypa tabuo tath.”
He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair overshadowed his face: He etdnru wrdtoa ihm in hsi hacir utb tincenodu to look at the guodnr. He sdeert ish cihn on ish hdan, adn hsi iewth rhai nguh dwon revo ihs efac.
“Have you spoken to Lucie?” “Hvea you knepos to ceLui utboa ihst?”
“No.” “No.”
“Nor written?” “Or twinetr to ehr abuto it?”
“Never.” “Never.”
“It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is to be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks you.” “It udlwo be rude to enrepdt otn to oknw thta you ahev tepk ulreyfos ywaa fmor reh tuo of rtepces fro me. I htkna oyu.”
He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it. He xeeteddn ihs hnda but ptke kgniloo at hte dnruog.
“I know,” said Darnay, respectfully, “how can I fail to know, Doctor Manette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between you and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it can have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and child. I know, Doctor Manette—how can I fail to know—that, mingled with the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there is, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy itself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is now devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present years and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if you had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could hardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that in which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to you, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your neck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at her own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted, loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I have known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home.” “I wkno,” adsi aDynar, ystuefplcerl. “woH odluc I ont onwk taht treeh is an uluunsa oevl nweetbe oyu adn rouy grheutad, Dr. Maeetnt? I evha esne hte wto of uoy eeohrttg ady etfar ady. It is so tucgohni, dna I onkw it oesmc omrf eth eemtxer scnutcmisecar ahtt uoy vaeh been ougrhht gtehoter. eerTh acn be efw pihirsolensat tbeween a fretha adn a ldcih ikle it. I wokn, Dr. aMntete—hwo odcul I otn nwok—atht odmncbei whit hte evlo of a norgw anmwo fro hre ahretf, ehrte is, in rhe aehtr, het eolv of an faitnn for hre ahterf as wlle. I nwko taht csien ehs dah no apenrts wehn ehs asw a hlcdi, seh is nwo edtoved to ouy htwi all hte loev of a nwrgo wmano, noedbicm ihtw eth ustrt dan ttahnatmec ehs envre hda as a idlhc. I wnko lewl tath if uyo had mceo kbca morf the ddae, uoy odluc haldyr emes rmoe cadesr to hre nhat yuo do onw. I wonk that hwen hse is hgdlino toon uoy, the sndha of a bbya, a lgir, dna a orgwn mnoaw totgeehr ear icagmrbne yuo. I oknw that in givnlo uyo seh esse dan veols reh tohmre as a goyun oawmn. ehS sese nda voels yuo as a ogynu anm. hSe leovs her braentdokerhe mthore nad oselv yuo urhhgto ouyr ilrta dan pemmrioinnts orthhug to when uyo rwee refde dna aeidiratehlbt. I hvea nkown itsh, ignht and yda, inces I aedsrtt to mceo to siivt you here at yruo ehom.”
Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a little quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation. reH athfer ast in eilcesn, gifnca the gournd. sHi haneigrtb dah sdep up a liltet, btu serhoiewt he sesepdrer yna ssngi of bngei speut.
“Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you with this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as long as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even now feel, that to bring my love—even mine—between you, is to touch your history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her. Heaven is my witness that I love her!” “My daer Dr. tteMane, aghivn swayla kwnon ihts, adn aaylws egiesn hte owt of ouy trhgetoe, I hvae estaenrird sfmeyl as lnog as nyhluma bopesisl. I have ftel, nda enve leef won, hatt to ibgnr my oelv twenbee ouy is to tnait your spta ihtw nitgsehmo nto teqiu as gdoo as sfeilt. Btu I oevl ehr. aHneev is my newtsis htat I olve erh!”

Original Text

Modern Text

The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the ground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly, and cried: ehT tcoord sta cgfian waya ofrm hmi, thwi hsi eesy on eth ungrod. reftA Mr. Dryana adh aids tseeh tsla swrod, Dr. Maneett dehtcster uto sih dhna aniag qiykcul nda adis:
“Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!” “noD’t seakp of htat, irs! eLvae tath olane! I beg oyu, ndo’t ribgn thta up!”
His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles Darnay’s ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had extended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter so received it, and remained silent. It esnuodd so mhcu keil he asw lucytala inygrc tuo in napi htta raleCsh nDyaar’s resa angr glon trfae he dha tpepdso. He edrsgetu wtih hte nahd he dha rdehcae out waotdr him. He esmdee to be nsakig ayDnra to seupa. Mr. aDrany ospepdt seinkapg.
“I ask your pardon,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some moments. “I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.” “I’m oryrs,” asid eth drctoo qteyuil erfta a wileh. “I don’t oudtb taht yuo vloe icuLe. You oulhds be hpypa tabuo tath.”
He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair overshadowed his face: He etdnru wrdtoa ihm in hsi hacir utb tincenodu to look at the guodnr. He sdeert ish cihn on ish hdan, adn hsi iewth rhai nguh dwon revo ihs efac.
“Have you spoken to Lucie?” “Hvea you knepos to ceLui utboa ihst?”
“No.” “No.”
“Nor written?” “Or twinetr to ehr abuto it?”
“Never.” “Never.”
“It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is to be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks you.” “It udlwo be rude to enrepdt otn to oknw thta you ahev tepk ulreyfos ywaa fmor reh tuo of rtepces fro me. I htkna oyu.”
He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it. He xeeteddn ihs hnda but ptke kgniloo at hte dnruog.
“I know,” said Darnay, respectfully, “how can I fail to know, Doctor Manette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between you and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it can have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and child. I know, Doctor Manette—how can I fail to know—that, mingled with the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there is, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy itself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is now devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present years and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if you had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could hardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that in which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to you, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your neck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at her own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted, loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I have known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home.” “I wkno,” adsi aDynar, ystuefplcerl. “woH odluc I ont onwk taht treeh is an uluunsa oevl nweetbe oyu adn rouy grheutad, Dr. Maeetnt? I evha esne hte wto of uoy eeohrttg ady etfar ady. It is so tucgohni, dna I onkw it oesmc omrf eth eemtxer scnutcmisecar ahtt uoy vaeh been ougrhht gtehoter. eerTh acn be efw pihirsolensat tbeween a fretha adn a ldcih ikle it. I wokn, Dr. aMntete—hwo odcul I otn nwok—atht odmncbei whit hte evlo of a norgw anmwo fro hre ahretf, ehrte is, in rhe aehtr, het eolv of an faitnn for hre ahterf as wlle. I nwko taht csien ehs dah no apenrts wehn ehs asw a hlcdi, seh is nwo edtoved to ouy htwi all hte loev of a nwrgo wmano, noedbicm ihtw eth ustrt dan ttahnatmec ehs envre hda as a idlhc. I wnko lewl tath if uyo had mceo kbca morf the ddae, uoy odluc haldyr emes rmoe cadesr to hre nhat yuo do onw. I wonk that hwen hse is hgdlino toon uoy, the sndha of a bbya, a lgir, dna a orgwn mnoaw totgeehr ear icagmrbne yuo. I oknw that in givnlo uyo seh esse dan veols reh tohmre as a goyun oawmn. ehS sese nda voels yuo as a ogynu anm. hSe leovs her braentdokerhe mthore nad oselv yuo urhhgto ouyr ilrta dan pemmrioinnts orthhug to when uyo rwee refde dna aeidiratehlbt. I hvea nkown itsh, ignht and yda, inces I aedsrtt to mceo to siivt you here at yruo ehom.”
Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a little quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation. reH athfer ast in eilcesn, gifnca the gournd. sHi haneigrtb dah sdep up a liltet, btu serhoiewt he sesepdrer yna ssngi of bngei speut.
“Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you with this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as long as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even now feel, that to bring my love—even mine—between you, is to touch your history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her. Heaven is my witness that I love her!” “My daer Dr. tteMane, aghivn swayla kwnon ihts, adn aaylws egiesn hte owt of ouy trhgetoe, I hvae estaenrird sfmeyl as lnog as nyhluma bopesisl. I have ftel, nda enve leef won, hatt to ibgnr my oelv twenbee ouy is to tnait your spta ihtw nitgsehmo nto teqiu as gdoo as sfeilt. Btu I oevl ehr. aHneev is my newtsis htat I olve erh!”