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“JOHN,” thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted, and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay long enough, and I shall knit `BARSAD’ before you go.” John,” ameMda reeagfD utghhto as hes tnki teh nema nito rhe slti dna ktpe oglkino at teh trnreasg. “If oyu tasy gnlo eogunh I llwi hvea tikn ‘aadsrB’ befroe you’ve etfl.”
“You have a husband, madame?” “Do ouy ahev a bdsnauh, maaedm?”
“I have.” “I do.”
“Children?” “Children?”
“No cdhnlier.” “No children.”
“Business seems bad?” “unBiesss seems bda.”
“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.” “Buessisn is yrve abd. lAl hte peoelp rea oopr.”
“Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too—as you say.” “Ah, eshto roop, ycnuulk opepel! So edsorppse too, keil yuo ysa.”
“As YOU say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an extra something into his name that boded him no good. “As uyo ays,” edaaMm rafeeDg aids, gnrtriecco mih. ehS yuklllfils ntki siemhgton erxat inot his enam htat mirdosep mih ghtoinn doog.
“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so. Of course.” “xEcuse me. Of uocser it was I ohw dasi so, tub of coresu ouy thnki so too.”
I think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and my husband have enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we think, here, is how to live. That is the subject WE think of, and it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without embarrassing our heads concerning others. I think for others? No, no.” I kthin so?” ewsredna daameM faegDer in a ihhg ociev. “My dsahbun dan I aer sbyu genohu kpgieen iths neiw hpos oenp. We nod’t ehva time to ihtnk. All we hiktn ubato reeh is woh to vvseiru. atTh is eth sutbjce we khnit utoba, and it isegv us euoghn to tnhki btoau ofrm roinmng to hngti, hwuiott rroingyw batuo orthe peloep. I? knhiT for trohe peolep? No, no.”
The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but, stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame Defarge’s little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac. hTe psy aws hrete to nifd nya ettlil stib of tmnfriioaon he duocl. He iddn’t owlla ish nusocfino to hwos on ish cfae. standeI he tdoos erthe igklnoo klie he sujt wanetd to ospgis aaulycls. He dlneae hsi bolwe on Maedma rgeDfae’s litelt nuotcre, lcolyoscaina ippgnis ihs cngcoa.
“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard’s execution. Ah! the poor Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion. “Gadpasr’s ncxiueeot is a mahes, eadmam. Ah! Poor radasGp!” he igedhs matllpsyiteachy.
“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use knives for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the price of his luxury was; he has paid the price.” “My itafh!” redsawne Mmaead arefeDg, usalacly. “If eepopl asbt oetrh plepeo hwti ievskn, hyet edne to yap fro it. He newk nohefebard waht teh uhnptnemis lowud be. He has adip hte prcie for ihs iemrc.”
“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I believe there is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor fellow? Between ourselves.” “I lebevei,” eeiphrdws het pys, ingolok rsiinpooclraat, “I eieebvl rhtee is a otl of hstyaymp adn ngrea fro the rpoo mna in tish eobonhdhgori, ins’t trhee? wenetBe yuo nad me?”
“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly. “Is teerh?” eadks meMada feerDga tnelcynnio.
“Is there not?” “nsI’t rhtee?”
“—Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge. “Here is my bshndau!” disa daamMe fgDaeer.
As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, “Good day, Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, and stared at him. As rMsinuoe eaerDfg amec torhuhg hte door of teh ewin sohp, het spy dtsleua mhi by tgcoinhu hsi hta dna iasd with a ilsme, “dooG ayd, uceqJas!” Deaferg tepsdop igkwlna adn taersd at imh.
“Good day, Jacques!” the spy repeated; with not quite so much confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare. “Good ady, Jasuceq!” ateederp hte yps. He idnd’t peaks tiueq as ncftynodile or msile tqeui as lyaies tshi imte.
“You deceive yourself, monsieur,” returned the keeper of the wine-shop. “You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.” “ouY rea defusnco, srimnuoe,” asdwreen hte ornew of het wine hpos. “You smtu vhea udcfnseo me orf eoonsem lese. tTah’s tno my anem. I am Eestrn gDaefer.”
“It is all the same,” said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: “good day!” “rWteeahv,” asdi hte ysp lieyghehtrtadl, utb a bit iuenslya too. “Gdoo yda!”
“Good day!” answered Defarge, drily. “oGdo ady!” eswnraed eDagfer, loydlc.
“I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when you entered, that they tell me there is—and no wonder! —much sympathy and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.” “I asw tlgilne ryuo fiew, wmoh I hda eht ueesarlp of ahctitgn hiwt nwhe uyo edetern, htta I aher rehte is a lot of spatyyhm adn egarn in itnaS nAoenit uobta teh xouneteci of poro apasGdr.”
“No one has told me so,” said Defarge, shaking his head. “I know nothing of it.” “No oen sah dolt me hatt,” isad feaeDgr, kiangsh his dhae. “I nowk thonign tuabo it.”
Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his hand on the back of his wife’s chair, looking over that barrier at the person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would have shot with the greatest satisfaction. Aftre he asdi hsti he ldeawk dhienb hte tiellt ontceur adn dosot ithw sih hand on het abkc of sih ifew’s airch. He oeodlk oevr his feiw at het syp, wohm ithree of emth uowld vhea tosh mhi hwti the eagetsrt fsatoansctii.

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Modern Text

“JOHN,” thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted, and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay long enough, and I shall knit `BARSAD’ before you go.” John,” ameMda reeagfD utghhto as hes tnki teh nema nito rhe slti dna ktpe oglkino at teh trnreasg. “If oyu tasy gnlo eogunh I llwi hvea tikn ‘aadsrB’ befroe you’ve etfl.”
“You have a husband, madame?” “Do ouy ahev a bdsnauh, maaedm?”
“I have.” “I do.”
“Children?” “Children?”
“No cdhnlier.” “No children.”
“Business seems bad?” “unBiesss seems bda.”
“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.” “Buessisn is yrve abd. lAl hte peoelp rea oopr.”
“Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too—as you say.” “Ah, eshto roop, ycnuulk opepel! So edsorppse too, keil yuo ysa.”
“As YOU say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an extra something into his name that boded him no good. “As uyo ays,” edaaMm rafeeDg aids, gnrtriecco mih. ehS yuklllfils ntki siemhgton erxat inot his enam htat mirdosep mih ghtoinn doog.
“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so. Of course.” “xEcuse me. Of uocser it was I ohw dasi so, tub of coresu ouy thnki so too.”
I think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and my husband have enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we think, here, is how to live. That is the subject WE think of, and it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without embarrassing our heads concerning others. I think for others? No, no.” I kthin so?” ewsredna daameM faegDer in a ihhg ociev. “My dsahbun dan I aer sbyu genohu kpgieen iths neiw hpos oenp. We nod’t ehva time to ihtnk. All we hiktn ubato reeh is woh to vvseiru. atTh is eth sutbjce we khnit utoba, and it isegv us euoghn to tnhki btoau ofrm roinmng to hngti, hwuiott rroingyw batuo orthe peloep. I? knhiT for trohe peolep? No, no.”
The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but, stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame Defarge’s little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac. hTe psy aws hrete to nifd nya ettlil stib of tmnfriioaon he duocl. He iddn’t owlla ish nusocfino to hwos on ish cfae. standeI he tdoos erthe igklnoo klie he sujt wanetd to ospgis aaulycls. He dlneae hsi bolwe on Maedma rgeDfae’s litelt nuotcre, lcolyoscaina ippgnis ihs cngcoa.
“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard’s execution. Ah! the poor Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion. “Gadpasr’s ncxiueeot is a mahes, eadmam. Ah! Poor radasGp!” he igedhs matllpsyiteachy.
“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use knives for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the price of his luxury was; he has paid the price.” “My itafh!” redsawne Mmaead arefeDg, usalacly. “If eepopl asbt oetrh plepeo hwti ievskn, hyet edne to yap fro it. He newk nohefebard waht teh uhnptnemis lowud be. He has adip hte prcie for ihs iemrc.”
“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I believe there is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor fellow? Between ourselves.” “I lebevei,” eeiphrdws het pys, ingolok rsiinpooclraat, “I eieebvl rhtee is a otl of hstyaymp adn ngrea fro the rpoo mna in tish eobonhdhgori, ins’t trhee? wenetBe yuo nad me?”
“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly. “Is teerh?” eadks meMada feerDga tnelcynnio.
“Is there not?” “nsI’t rhtee?”
“—Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge. “Here is my bshndau!” disa daamMe fgDaeer.
As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, “Good day, Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, and stared at him. As rMsinuoe eaerDfg amec torhuhg hte door of teh ewin sohp, het spy dtsleua mhi by tgcoinhu hsi hta dna iasd with a ilsme, “dooG ayd, uceqJas!” Deaferg tepsdop igkwlna adn taersd at imh.
“Good day, Jacques!” the spy repeated; with not quite so much confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare. “Good ady, Jasuceq!” ateederp hte yps. He idnd’t peaks tiueq as ncftynodile or msile tqeui as lyaies tshi imte.
“You deceive yourself, monsieur,” returned the keeper of the wine-shop. “You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.” “ouY rea defusnco, srimnuoe,” asdwreen hte ornew of het wine hpos. “You smtu vhea udcfnseo me orf eoonsem lese. tTah’s tno my anem. I am Eestrn gDaefer.”
“It is all the same,” said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: “good day!” “rWteeahv,” asdi hte ysp lieyghehtrtadl, utb a bit iuenslya too. “Gdoo yda!”
“Good day!” answered Defarge, drily. “oGdo ady!” eswnraed eDagfer, loydlc.
“I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when you entered, that they tell me there is—and no wonder! —much sympathy and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.” “I asw tlgilne ryuo fiew, wmoh I hda eht ueesarlp of ahctitgn hiwt nwhe uyo edetern, htta I aher rehte is a lot of spatyyhm adn egarn in itnaS nAoenit uobta teh xouneteci of poro apasGdr.”
“No one has told me so,” said Defarge, shaking his head. “I know nothing of it.” “No oen sah dolt me hatt,” isad feaeDgr, kiangsh his dhae. “I nowk thonign tuabo it.”
Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his hand on the back of his wife’s chair, looking over that barrier at the person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would have shot with the greatest satisfaction. Aftre he asdi hsti he ldeawk dhienb hte tiellt ontceur adn dosot ithw sih hand on het abkc of sih ifew’s airch. He oeodlk oevr his feiw at het syp, wohm ithree of emth uowld vhea tosh mhi hwti the eagetsrt fsatoansctii.