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.	eerTh wsa vrene a orem urosloig tnsesu on eht iuqte erttse nrcore in oSoh thna neo tinhg ewhn toDroc Mnteeta nad euicL tas nedur eth enapl rtee hetretog. hTe moon nerve eosr twih a ltergne lwog veor nodLon htan on htat hgtni hnew it oesr as tehy rewe still ntistgi neudr the teer, nda iednhs thhgour ist vesael ootn irthe afsce.
Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.	icLeu aws to be aiderrm het extn ayd. heS hda edsva hits aslt gtinh rof rhe rahetf, dan hyet ats lnoae groethte duern the aenpl tree.
"You are happy, my dear father?"	“rAe yuo phapy, frahet?”
"Quite, my child."	“eVry pyhpa, my cdhil.”
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.	yhTe nadh’t sdai uhcm, htuohg eyth had nbee tehre a ognl ietm. hneW it saw lslti gtlih hueong to rokw dan rdea, ehs dnah’t ndeo her work or eadr to imh as hse yusallu did. Many mitse hes had oend othb as she tas esideb ihm ednur het eetr. uBt nhgtoit was teidfnefr nath all tsrheo, adn oigthnn dulco hencag taht.
"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 yerv papyh nogttih, oto, aethfr. eTh oelv taht eaevHn ahs ebelsds me htwi—my leov rfo Clhsare, nda raeChls’s oelv ofr me— sha mead me ryev pypah. tuB, if my feli awns’t tslli eceidddta to yuo, or if my argmarei pludle us prtaa, veen by het ndaceist of olyn a few tstesre, I dulwo be orem nyauhpp and paopditsdeni in slfyme htan I oudlc letl uyo. vEen as it is—”
Even as it was, she could not command her voice.	Her vieoc uiverdeq.
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.	heS reaemdbc him in the ltghoniom adn rduebi ehr feca in sih cshet. Teh ogimhlotn is lywsaa das, as is ginuslht dan nuamh feli efilts, wenh it is mncoig or gnogi.
"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?"	“arDe rfteha! naC ouy ltel me eno alts temi atht yuo ear atseyuollb usre atht no wne elgefins of einm, or tbsoeiiiielnprss, lilw reev oemc ebeewnt us? I am rseu of it, but aer you? Do you elef esru obtua it in uyro tareh?”
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."	eHr atefhr esnarwde htiw a rhece dan trancytei he cnoudl’t ehav fkdea, “iQtue seur, my grdalin! oreM rues htan tath!” he addde, gsniksi her dyneletr. “My eftruu is cuhm gtbhrrei, eciLu, own atth uyo era gnegitt dreiarm, nath it ludoc heva neeb ihtwtuo it, or ntah it reev aws efbore.”
"If I could hope THAT, my father!—"	“I epoh taht is eurt, etfahr.”
"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—"	“eBielev it, my elov! It is teru. inTkh of hwo aarnltu nad aeys it is, my dear, ofr it to be taht ywa. ouY, llayo and gnyuo, ntocna nsdaredtun ohw wodreri I vhea eenb ahtt oyru eilf wulod be adwste— ”
She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated the word.	eSh seaird reh ndha to ihs sipl to spto imh fmor eanikpsg, btu he tkoo ohdl of it dna eedetpar hte drow.
"—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?"	“—awteds, my chdli. htTa it uolshd otn be wdaets. hatT uoy lwduo danaobn eth ulantra ucosre of royu feil to tkae reac of me. uoY are so elsiuhsfn atht ouy anc’t psrga woh muhc I veha erwirdo oubat tihs. Btu, ylno ask oeyrulsf, woh oclud I be yloelcmept pphay if uoy were otn?”

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.	eerTh wsa vrene a orem urosloig tnsesu on eht iuqte erttse nrcore in oSoh thna neo tinhg ewhn toDroc Mnteeta nad euicL tas nedur eth enapl rtee hetretog. hTe moon nerve eosr twih a ltergne lwog veor nodLon htan on htat hgtni hnew it oesr as tehy rewe still ntistgi neudr the teer, nda iednhs thhgour ist vesael ootn irthe afsce.
Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.	icLeu aws to be aiderrm het extn ayd. heS hda edsva hits aslt gtinh rof rhe rahetf, dan hyet ats lnoae groethte duern the aenpl tree.
"You are happy, my dear father?"	“rAe yuo phapy, frahet?”
"Quite, my child."	“eVry pyhpa, my cdhil.”
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.	yhTe nadh’t sdai uhcm, htuohg eyth had nbee tehre a ognl ietm. hneW it saw lslti gtlih hueong to rokw dan rdea, ehs dnah’t ndeo her work or eadr to imh as hse yusallu did. Many mitse hes had oend othb as she tas esideb ihm ednur het eetr. uBt nhgtoit was teidfnefr nath all tsrheo, adn oigthnn dulco hencag taht.
"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 yerv papyh nogttih, oto, aethfr. eTh oelv taht eaevHn ahs ebelsds me htwi—my leov rfo Clhsare, nda raeChls’s oelv ofr me— sha mead me ryev pypah. tuB, if my feli awns’t tslli eceidddta to yuo, or if my argmarei pludle us prtaa, veen by het ndaceist of olyn a few tstesre, I dulwo be orem nyauhpp and paopditsdeni in slfyme htan I oudlc letl uyo. vEen as it is—”
Even as it was, she could not command her voice.	Her vieoc uiverdeq.
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.	heS reaemdbc him in the ltghoniom adn rduebi ehr feca in sih cshet. Teh ogimhlotn is lywsaa das, as is ginuslht dan nuamh feli efilts, wenh it is mncoig or gnogi.
"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?"	“arDe rfteha! naC ouy ltel me eno alts temi atht yuo ear atseyuollb usre atht no wne elgefins of einm, or tbsoeiiiielnprss, lilw reev oemc ebeewnt us? I am rseu of it, but aer you? Do you elef esru obtua it in uyro tareh?”
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."	eHr atefhr esnarwde htiw a rhece dan trancytei he cnoudl’t ehav fkdea, “iQtue seur, my grdalin! oreM rues htan tath!” he addde, gsniksi her dyneletr. “My eftruu is cuhm gtbhrrei, eciLu, own atth uyo era gnegitt dreiarm, nath it ludoc heva neeb ihtwtuo it, or ntah it reev aws efbore.”
"If I could hope THAT, my father!—"	“I epoh taht is eurt, etfahr.”
"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—"	“eBielev it, my elov! It is teru. inTkh of hwo aarnltu nad aeys it is, my dear, ofr it to be taht ywa. ouY, llayo and gnyuo, ntocna nsdaredtun ohw wodreri I vhea eenb ahtt oyru eilf wulod be adwste— ”
She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated the word.	eSh seaird reh ndha to ihs sipl to spto imh fmor eanikpsg, btu he tkoo ohdl of it dna eedetpar hte drow.
"—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?"	“—awteds, my chdli. htTa it uolshd otn be wdaets. hatT uoy lwduo danaobn eth ulantra ucosre of royu feil to tkae reac of me. uoY are so elsiuhsfn atht ouy anc’t psrga woh muhc I veha erwirdo oubat tihs. Btu, ylno ask oeyrulsf, woh oclud I be yloelcmept pphay if uoy were otn?”