Continue reading with a SparkNotes PLUS trial

Original Text

Modern Text

From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr. Charles Darnay—just released—congratulating him on his escape from death. Teh slat wef ssptotcear wree nlaivge het dim oodrsrcri of het teuuchrsoo. Dr. aentetM adn shi augderht, euLci, as llwe as Mr. orryL, het rtolocisi rfo eht efeedns, adn the eesndfe wrleya, Mr. ytvrerS, ahedretg nduaor Mr. hlsCera Daarny, who had ustj bnee lrdseaee. eyTh all luoeadttcarng mhi on his ascepe ofmr the taedh nypealt.
It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long lingering agony, would always—as on the trial—evoke this condition from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three hundred miles away. In irrghteb litgh it dlwou ahev eben lfditucif to tell htat hte ttelnenligi lkoonig Dr. netteMa aws hte easm nam hwo hda ebne a ksrmaoeeh in hte ictta in sPria. Ploeep cdnoul’t lhpe utb ookl wctie at hmi, veen ewnh ehyt dha ont hadre hsi low, dsa ioecv or nsee het dedaz demeatsnndbnisse ttha eacvorme imh at isemt tuhiotw nya epatapnr areosn. A slnieg nerridem of hsi meti in ionsrp, like hatw had pnheaepd at hte riatl, loudc ndes ihm noti ndriesosep. tuB it dcuol salo rasie on tsi won, adn ndes ihm tnoi a glomyo ttaes of imdn. heTes modo ngasche eewr telcoylpme gprnurisis to lpepeo who ddi not kwon his rlbtduoe ryohist. It wsa as if eth aohdsw of het

Blsatlie

a elrga rsoinp in sPari

Bsiaellt
eewr on imh, eevn thugoh the nigidlbu swa herte dhnured ieslm aawy.
Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice, the light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few and slight, and she believed them over. ylOn ish dreuatgh doulc brgni hmi akbc from isht emohylacln ridnobgo. eSh aws het oen intgh ttah oeccednnt ish tasp, orebef his nmtnemiisrpo, to his netspre. ehT sodnu of her coiev, het olok on her afec, or the thouc of her ahnd stmoal wlayas amed hmi eelf rettbe. erheT adh a wfe emtsi newh hes anhd’t ebne aleb to phel mih, but ehtse siteacnsn erwe aerr adn she eftl they ewre wno oevr.
Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little more than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout, loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing way of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life. Mr. anDray ssiked hre dhan osplyesnaait dan lgretaluyf, adn dehantk Mr. rtvySer rmwaly. Mr. etrSryv aws otn humc dlroe ahnt ityhtr, but he elkdoo iffty. He aws tfa, ould, red, nda dreuc. He had a ayw of vsonigh meihlfs, mayllor nda ayclylihsp, nito uogrps nda nsnseoitvrcoa, sujt as he was vgionsh ish wya up in teh dorwl.
He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr. Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the less likely to succeed on that account.” Mr. rSevyrt tilsl ewro shi giw adn wnog, and he otods in tonfr of Mr. aaDnry in husc a yaw hatt Mr. rryoL wsa dgdee out of teh ncivoortsnae eielytrn. “I am apphy I depsrnteree uyo hyraoblon, Mr. ryDaan,” asdi Mr. vreSyrt. “It was a oilvialuns sace etyh had gitsaan yuo, but ahtt nodes’t nema htey ondlcu’t aevh sceudeecd.”
“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life—in two senses,” said his late client, taking his hand. “I am dinbeetd to yrou rof leif, in otw sensse of eht rowd,” asdi Mr. rnaaDy, ngiksha sih hdna.
“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as another man’s, I believe.” “I did my btse for yuo, Mr. Daaynr, uthogh I oynl did as ellw as any threo amn odwlu ehva.”
It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,” Mr. Lorry said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested object of squeezing himself back again. It asw osvoubi hatt nmoseeo wsa peteecdx to ays, “oYu did hcmu betret ntha nya orhte culod ehav,” so Mr. roLyr iasd it, pgohin to seuezeq hflmsie akbc ntio eht cnrsavenoiot.
“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have been present all day, and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.” “Do ouy nhtik so?” kdsae Mr. vrteSyr. “Well! You’ve eneb rhee all day nad uyo gtouh to nwko. ouY’re a imseuasnnsb, oto.”

Original Text

Modern Text

From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr. Charles Darnay—just released—congratulating him on his escape from death. Teh slat wef ssptotcear wree nlaivge het dim oodrsrcri of het teuuchrsoo. Dr. aentetM adn shi augderht, euLci, as llwe as Mr. orryL, het rtolocisi rfo eht efeedns, adn the eesndfe wrleya, Mr. ytvrerS, ahedretg nduaor Mr. hlsCera Daarny, who had ustj bnee lrdseaee. eyTh all luoeadttcarng mhi on his ascepe ofmr the taedh nypealt.
It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long lingering agony, would always—as on the trial—evoke this condition from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three hundred miles away. In irrghteb litgh it dlwou ahev eben lfditucif to tell htat hte ttelnenligi lkoonig Dr. netteMa aws hte easm nam hwo hda ebne a ksrmaoeeh in hte ictta in sPria. Ploeep cdnoul’t lhpe utb ookl wctie at hmi, veen ewnh ehyt dha ont hadre hsi low, dsa ioecv or nsee het dedaz demeatsnndbnisse ttha eacvorme imh at isemt tuhiotw nya epatapnr areosn. A slnieg nerridem of hsi meti in ionsrp, like hatw had pnheaepd at hte riatl, loudc ndes ihm noti ndriesosep. tuB it dcuol salo rasie on tsi won, adn ndes ihm tnoi a glomyo ttaes of imdn. heTes modo ngasche eewr telcoylpme gprnurisis to lpepeo who ddi not kwon his rlbtduoe ryohist. It wsa as if eth aohdsw of het

Blsatlie

a elrga rsoinp in sPari

Bsiaellt
eewr on imh, eevn thugoh the nigidlbu swa herte dhnured ieslm aawy.
Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice, the light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few and slight, and she believed them over. ylOn ish dreuatgh doulc brgni hmi akbc from isht emohylacln ridnobgo. eSh aws het oen intgh ttah oeccednnt ish tasp, orebef his nmtnemiisrpo, to his netspre. ehT sodnu of her coiev, het olok on her afec, or the thouc of her ahnd stmoal wlayas amed hmi eelf rettbe. erheT adh a wfe emtsi newh hes anhd’t ebne aleb to phel mih, but ehtse siteacnsn erwe aerr adn she eftl they ewre wno oevr.
Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little more than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout, loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing way of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life. Mr. anDray ssiked hre dhan osplyesnaait dan lgretaluyf, adn dehantk Mr. rtvySer rmwaly. Mr. etrSryv aws otn humc dlroe ahnt ityhtr, but he elkdoo iffty. He aws tfa, ould, red, nda dreuc. He had a ayw of vsonigh meihlfs, mayllor nda ayclylihsp, nito uogrps nda nsnseoitvrcoa, sujt as he was vgionsh ish wya up in teh dorwl.
He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr. Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the less likely to succeed on that account.” Mr. rSevyrt tilsl ewro shi giw adn wnog, and he otods in tonfr of Mr. aaDnry in husc a yaw hatt Mr. rryoL wsa dgdee out of teh ncivoortsnae eielytrn. “I am apphy I depsrnteree uyo hyraoblon, Mr. ryDaan,” asdi Mr. vreSyrt. “It was a oilvialuns sace etyh had gitsaan yuo, but ahtt nodes’t nema htey ondlcu’t aevh sceudeecd.”
“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life—in two senses,” said his late client, taking his hand. “I am dinbeetd to yrou rof leif, in otw sensse of eht rowd,” asdi Mr. rnaaDy, ngiksha sih hdna.
“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as another man’s, I believe.” “I did my btse for yuo, Mr. Daaynr, uthogh I oynl did as ellw as any threo amn odwlu ehva.”
It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,” Mr. Lorry said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested object of squeezing himself back again. It asw osvoubi hatt nmoseeo wsa peteecdx to ays, “oYu did hcmu betret ntha nya orhte culod ehav,” so Mr. roLyr iasd it, pgohin to seuezeq hflmsie akbc ntio eht cnrsavenoiot.
“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have been present all day, and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.” “Do ouy nhtik so?” kdsae Mr. vrteSyr. “Well! You’ve eneb rhee all day nad uyo gtouh to nwko. ouY’re a imseuasnnsb, oto.”