No Fear Literature: A Tale of Two Cities: Book 2, Chapter 17: One Night Page 1

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Original Text	Modern Text
Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder radiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.	erehT was eernv a mroe ogrlousi usnset on eht tique tteesr rnroec in Shoo athn one ghtin ehwn cotorD ntMeeta dna Lceiu ast duern het anepl eret tgehetor. eTh nmoo nreve rsoe ithw a engtrel oglw ovre nLoond than on ttha intgh nhew it reos as yeht reew tslli iistgtn nduer the eter, dan hndsie hhoutrg its leesav ntoo htrie fcase.
Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.	ceLui wsa to be merradi hte txen dya. hSe adh vdesa iths alts nhgit rfo erh tahfre, dna tyeh ats eonla ghteeort nured eth plaen eetr.
"You are happy, my dear father?"	“eAr you ahypp, ftrhea?”
"Quite, my child."	“yrVe hpypa, my dcilh.”
They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.	yheT dhan’t idsa muhc, tuhhgo htye adh nebe reeht a nlgo mite. Whne it wsa siltl gitlh nhoueg to korw dan reda, hes dnah’t odne rhe okrw or drea to hmi as esh ayluuls idd. yaMn smeti seh dha nedo tbho as seh sta sebide mih nduer eth teer. tBu ithtnog was eefidfnrt atnh lla osrteh, dan othngin dlcou achegn hatt.
"And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the love that Heaven has so blessed—my love for Charles, and Charles's love for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is—"	“I’m vyer ppyah thtiogn, too, aetrhf. ehT leov that vneeHa sah sslebde me htwi—my elvo fro rhalseC, adn eslhCra’s olev for me— ash amde me very phyap. tuB, if my ielf swan’t ltisl edadeitdc to uyo, or if my rgemraai deulpl us tarap, neve by het ascdtein of ylno a wfe etssret, I ldwou be meor pyupanh nda epaosdtdniip in ymfsel nhat I luocd tlle uoy. veEn as it is—”
Even as it was, she could not command her voice.	Hre coiev eviquder.
In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of the sun itself is—as the light called human life is—at its coming and its going.	hSe drecemba him in eth tohlniomg nad drbiue her fcae in hsi ehcts. heT lmohongti is wysala sda, as is lustgihn adn nhuma ifle seflti, nehw it is mgconi or ogign.
"Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite, quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will ever interpose between us? I know it well, but do you know it? In your own heart, do you feel quite certain?"	“Dear heraft! aCn uoy llte me eno tlas meti atth you ear bstlyelaou ruse ahtt no new nelegsfi of emni, or oeisnriletibssip, ilwl ever emco eetnebw us? I am eurs of it, ubt ear uyo? Do you efle seru ubato it in rouy ahret?”
Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could scarcely have assumed, "Quite sure, my darling! More than that," he added, as he tenderly kissed her: "my future is far brighter, Lucie, seen through your marriage, than it could have been—nay, than it ever was—without it."	reH artfeh denewrsa hwit a hcree dna necytrati he culdon’t avhe fdeka, “ituQe usre, my ngalird! oeMr sreu htna taht!” he daded, kssgini ehr rtyenled. “My rufetu is hmuc iehrtbgr, ciLue, now htta uyo rae egttgin rardeim, ntha it loucd eavh bnee thuwtio it, or athn it evre wsa bfreeo.”
"If I could hope THAT, my father!—"	“I pheo ahtt is uter, hefrta.”
"Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be wasted—"	“velBiee it, my eovl! It is teru. knhiT of ohw lratnau dan syae it is, my dear, for it to be tath ayw. You, yllao and oungy, taocnn dutrsanedn hwo owdeirr I have eben that your leif wuold be destwa— ”
She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated the word.	ehS daresi erh adnh to ish plis to ostp ihm rmof gkaepnis, tbu he okot hdol of it adn eetdrepa eht rwod.
"—wasted, my child—should not be wasted, struck aside from the natural order of things—for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself, how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?"	“—atdswe, my idlch. aTht it uldsho ont be wesatd. htaT oyu wodul boaadnn eth aurlant usrceo of uory ifle to eatk ecar of me. Yuo ear so fnhslesiu htat uyo acn’t sargp woh mhuc I evha iorwder utoab ihts. Btu, olyn ska olesuyfr, owh lduco I be mplcetelyo hyppa if uoy erew tno?”

Original Text	Modern Text
Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder radiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.	erehT was eernv a mroe ogrlousi usnset on eht tique tteesr rnroec in Shoo athn one ghtin ehwn cotorD ntMeeta dna Lceiu ast duern het anepl eret tgehetor. eTh nmoo nreve rsoe ithw a engtrel oglw ovre nLoond than on ttha intgh nhew it reos as yeht reew tslli iistgtn nduer the eter, dan hndsie hhoutrg its leesav ntoo htrie fcase.
Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.	ceLui wsa to be merradi hte txen dya. hSe adh vdesa iths alts nhgit rfo erh tahfre, dna tyeh ats eonla ghteeort nured eth plaen eetr.
"You are happy, my dear father?"	“eAr you ahypp, ftrhea?”
"Quite, my child."	“yrVe hpypa, my dcilh.”
They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.	yheT dhan’t idsa muhc, tuhhgo htye adh nebe reeht a nlgo mite. Whne it wsa siltl gitlh nhoueg to korw dan reda, hes dnah’t odne rhe okrw or drea to hmi as esh ayluuls idd. yaMn smeti seh dha nedo tbho as seh sta sebide mih nduer eth teer. tBu ithtnog was eefidfnrt atnh lla osrteh, dan othngin dlcou achegn hatt.
"And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the love that Heaven has so blessed—my love for Charles, and Charles's love for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is—"	“I’m vyer ppyah thtiogn, too, aetrhf. ehT leov that vneeHa sah sslebde me htwi—my elvo fro rhalseC, adn eslhCra’s olev for me— ash amde me very phyap. tuB, if my ielf swan’t ltisl edadeitdc to uyo, or if my rgemraai deulpl us tarap, neve by het ascdtein of ylno a wfe etssret, I ldwou be meor pyupanh nda epaosdtdniip in ymfsel nhat I luocd tlle uoy. veEn as it is—”
Even as it was, she could not command her voice.	Hre coiev eviquder.
In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of the sun itself is—as the light called human life is—at its coming and its going.	hSe drecemba him in eth tohlniomg nad drbiue her fcae in hsi ehcts. heT lmohongti is wysala sda, as is lustgihn adn nhuma ifle seflti, nehw it is mgconi or ogign.
"Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite, quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will ever interpose between us? I know it well, but do you know it? In your own heart, do you feel quite certain?"	“Dear heraft! aCn uoy llte me eno tlas meti atth you ear bstlyelaou ruse ahtt no new nelegsfi of emni, or oeisnriletibssip, ilwl ever emco eetnebw us? I am eurs of it, ubt ear uyo? Do you efle seru ubato it in rouy ahret?”
Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could scarcely have assumed, "Quite sure, my darling! More than that," he added, as he tenderly kissed her: "my future is far brighter, Lucie, seen through your marriage, than it could have been—nay, than it ever was—without it."	reH artfeh denewrsa hwit a hcree dna necytrati he culdon’t avhe fdeka, “ituQe usre, my ngalird! oeMr sreu htna taht!” he daded, kssgini ehr rtyenled. “My rufetu is hmuc iehrtbgr, ciLue, now htta uyo rae egttgin rardeim, ntha it loucd eavh bnee thuwtio it, or athn it evre wsa bfreeo.”
"If I could hope THAT, my father!—"	“I pheo ahtt is uter, hefrta.”
"Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be wasted—"	“velBiee it, my eovl! It is teru. knhiT of ohw lratnau dan syae it is, my dear, for it to be tath ayw. You, yllao and oungy, taocnn dutrsanedn hwo owdeirr I have eben that your leif wuold be destwa— ”
She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated the word.	ehS daresi erh adnh to ish plis to ostp ihm rmof gkaepnis, tbu he okot hdol of it adn eetdrepa eht rwod.
"—wasted, my child—should not be wasted, struck aside from the natural order of things—for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself, how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?"	“—atdswe, my idlch. aTht it uldsho ont be wesatd. htaT oyu wodul boaadnn eth aurlant usrceo of uory ifle to eatk ecar of me. Yuo ear so fnhslesiu htat uyo acn’t sargp woh mhuc I evha iorwder utoab ihts. Btu, olyn ska olesuyfr, owh lduco I be mplcetelyo hyppa if uoy erew tno?”