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“Here he is,” said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment. “Here he is,” said the doctor, coming into the dark room.
“I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by which I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without reason. You are not going out, I hope?” “I’m happy that you’re at home. All of this anxiousness that I’ve been surrounded by all day has made me nervous for no reason. You’re not going out, I hope?”
“No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,” said the Doctor. “No. I’m going to play backgammon here with you, if you want,” said the doctor.
“I don’t think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be pitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I can’t see.” “I don’t think I want to, if I can speak my mind. I’m too worried to compete against you tonight. Is the tea tray still there, Lucie? I can’t see it.”
“Of course, it has been kept for you.” “Of course. We kept it out for you.”
“Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?” “Thank you, my dear. Your precious daughter is safe in bed?”
“And sleeping soundly.” “And sleeping soundly.”
“That’s right; all safe and well! I don’t know why anything should be otherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out all day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now, come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear the echoes about which you have your theory.” “That’s right. All is safe and sound! I don’t know why everything shouldn’t be safe and sound here, thank God. But I have been so overworked all day. I’m not as young as I used to be! My tea, my dear! Thank you. Now, come and join us in our circle. Let’s all sit quietly and listen to the echoes that you have your theory about.”
“Not a theory; it was a fancy.” “It’s not a theory; just something I like to imagine.”
“A fancy, then, my wise pet,” said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. “They are very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them!” “It’s your imagination then, my wise pet,” said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. “These echoes are very numerous and very loud, though, aren’t they? Listen to them!”
Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody’s life, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the footsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in the dark London window. Charging, crazy, dangerous footsteps were raging in Saint Antoine far away, while a little circle of friends sat in the dark window in London. Footsteps that could force their way into anyone’s life. Footsteps that could not easily be cleaned after they have been stained red with blood.
Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy heads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous roar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms struggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind: all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a weapon that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off. That morning there had been a wide, dark crowd of scarecrow-like peasants moving back and forth in Saint Antoine. Sunlight often gleamed above their heads as it reflected off the steel blades and bayonets they carried. A huge roar came up from Saint Antoine, and many bare arms waived in the air like shriveled tree branches in the wind. People grabbed at every devilish weapon, or anything that could be used as a weapon, that they could find.
Who gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what agency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the heads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could have told; but, muskets were being distributed—so were cartridges, powder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who could lay hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to force stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and heart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat. Every living creature there held life as of no account, and was demented with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it. No one knew who gave out the weapons or where they last came from. No one knew what made them quiver and jerk over the heads of the crowd, bunches at a time, like a kind of lightning. But muskets were being handed out, and so were cartridges, powder, bullets, bars made of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, and anything that the enraged people could turn into a weapon. People who couldn’t find anything else pulled stones and bricks out of walls until their hands bled. Everyone in Saint Antoine was angry and excited. Every living creature there gave no value to life, and was ready with a demented passion to sacrifice its own.
As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging circled round Defarge’s wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself, already begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms, thrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm another, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar. Just like a whirlpool has a center point, all this turmoil circled around Defarge’s wine shop. It was as if every person were being pulled toward the center, where Defarge, already covered in gunpowder and sweat, was giving orders and weapons. He was pushing some men back, some forward, taking a weapon away from one man to give it to another, and working hard in the middle of the commotion.