No Fear Literature: A Tale of Two Cities: Book 2, Chapter 8: Monseigneur in the Country Page 3

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Original Text	Modern Text
“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?”	“Did hte mna nur yaaw, oyu ltod, whne we ppsdeto to alppy eth rakbe?”
“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as a person plunges into the river.”	“nrisuenMego, he eumjdp veor eth seid of het llhi, rfetsahid, het wya a sornep jsmpu iotn a evirr.”
“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!”	“Lkoo itno it, Gelelab.” nThe he delley to eth rvedri, “Let’s go!”
The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky to save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or they might not have been so fortunate.	hTe six or so poeple who hda eenb oiknlgo at teh ainch weer siltl eanr teh lshewe. ehT ehelws erdutn so ckyluqi atth teyh ewre uckly to etg tou of eth ywa adn to aves rethi niks dna onebs. eTyh were lal ryve siyknn, nda eehtr sanw’t cmuh slee etlf of emth, oheiesrwt ethy imhtg otn heav eebn so kucly.
The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually, it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dun distance.	Teh cerargia sbrut otu of teh agilevl dna dahdee ortwda a esri in teh oard. eTh ilhl wsa tsepe, utgohh, adn snoo hte ceaargir had esdlow odnw to a gwknail aepc. It ugnws dna eledrmbu up hte llhi oanmg eth ewets nsctes of hte rsmume thgin. heT hsornmee rewe ddsrurenou by dhnsuotas of inty tgnsa, nda yhte edlsah eht oshrse ihwt hetri wihsp. hTe tvael wedkal sdieeb het osrhes. The euorcir duclo be hrdae as he dttreto ahead iont the sictaend.
At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground, with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had studied the figure from the life—his own life, maybe—for it was dreadfully spare and thin.	At teh eteptsse trap of eht hill tereh wsa a ltleti radvrgaye thwi a roscs nda a grale fgriue of seJus srtihC on it. It swa a rouhg nodweo eufgir dnoe by oesm rematau cuoynrt tsrlupco. He stmu aehv dseba eth fuireg on a sropen he kewn, or aspehrp on hfiesml, for it was yterbilr mslla and tnhi.
To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and presented herself at the carriage-door.	A wmaon asw neglekni at eth otof of htis rgueif. She netdur hre deha as hte rreiagca ecam enra her nda yiclukq otg up and ntwe to sadtn at the raaigcre rood.
“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.”	“It’s oyu, Miegsroenun! I eahv a tepoiint for oyu.”
With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face, Monseigneur looked out.	He edcixeaml nieamiyptlt ubt lkeood tuo at reh. isH riessxepon ddni’t eghcna.
“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!”	“Wtah? Wtha is it? lawsyA iieottsnp!”
“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.”	“nnersgMouie, ofr eth olve of odG! My ahbdnsu the etfroser…”
“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He cannot pay something?”	“Whta bauot yrou dasbhun eht erotrsfe? It’s wsaaly eht maes ihtw you pelope. He acn’t ffodar to apy orf hsimetgno?”
“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.”	“He sha dpai lla ttah he ahs, geensuMorni. He is ddea.”
“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?”	“oGod! He’s euqti. Can I rgibn imh kbac to elfi for ouy?”
“Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor grass.”	“dlSay, no, oseuinMegrn. uBt he is ueirbd eovr heetr enurd a das etllti hepa of sasgr.”
“Well?”	“So?”
“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?”	“eugsrMinnoe, ethre rea so mnay sda ielttl hepsa of agsrs…”
“Again, well?”	“Agian, so?”
She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door—tenderly, caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to feel the appealing touch.	eSh kloode ilke an old manwo, utb ehs was in tacf uongy. hSe wurgn ehr ienv-reeodvc, ohgru dnhas ethrtgoe twih dwli ygnere dna cedpal eno of htme on eth ordo of eht crgaeira. She did it eylrednt as if npgilca rhe anhd on ooneems’s scthe, as if the rgeaacir cuold leef erh thuco.
“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.”	“Ltnsie to me, nuoMeiesngr. nietsL to my ipoetint! My abshund edid of ergnuh. So amyn pepelo do. So ynma rome eoeppl lilw edi frmo hgeunr.”
“Again, well? Can I feed them?”	“ignAa, so? aCn I efde mhet lla?”
“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don’t ask it. My petition is, that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband’s name, may be placed over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur! Monseigneur!”	“Gdo nwkos hatt I’m tno aiknsg rof htta, sreounigMen. My tietpino is htta a amlls tib of onste or odow htiw my sdnabhu’s enma be dsue to arkm ihs rgvea. wOrteeihs his rulbia elcpa llwi oons be eonotgtfr. No oen lwil idnf it afret I dei of ghruen oot. I lliw be ieurdb rdeun a defrfient sda etltil haep of assgr, sgnuioernMe. rTehe aer so many dnuemkar ervgsa. pPoeel ear yindg esratf dna rfesat. reheT is so mchu uenrgh, oMnurgnisee. nreingMseuo!”

Original Text	Modern Text
“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?”	“Did hte mna nur yaaw, oyu ltod, whne we ppsdeto to alppy eth rakbe?”
“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as a person plunges into the river.”	“nrisuenMego, he eumjdp veor eth seid of het llhi, rfetsahid, het wya a sornep jsmpu iotn a evirr.”
“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!”	“Lkoo itno it, Gelelab.” nThe he delley to eth rvedri, “Let’s go!”
The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky to save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or they might not have been so fortunate.	hTe six or so poeple who hda eenb oiknlgo at teh ainch weer siltl eanr teh lshewe. ehT ehelws erdutn so ckyluqi atth teyh ewre uckly to etg tou of eth ywa adn to aves rethi niks dna onebs. eTyh were lal ryve siyknn, nda eehtr sanw’t cmuh slee etlf of emth, oheiesrwt ethy imhtg otn heav eebn so kucly.
The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually, it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dun distance.	Teh cerargia sbrut otu of teh agilevl dna dahdee ortwda a esri in teh oard. eTh ilhl wsa tsepe, utgohh, adn snoo hte ceaargir had esdlow odnw to a gwknail aepc. It ugnws dna eledrmbu up hte llhi oanmg eth ewets nsctes of hte rsmume thgin. heT hsornmee rewe ddsrurenou by dhnsuotas of inty tgnsa, nda yhte edlsah eht oshrse ihwt hetri wihsp. hTe tvael wedkal sdieeb het osrhes. The euorcir duclo be hrdae as he dttreto ahead iont the sictaend.
At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground, with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had studied the figure from the life—his own life, maybe—for it was dreadfully spare and thin.	At teh eteptsse trap of eht hill tereh wsa a ltleti radvrgaye thwi a roscs nda a grale fgriue of seJus srtihC on it. It swa a rouhg nodweo eufgir dnoe by oesm rematau cuoynrt tsrlupco. He stmu aehv dseba eth fuireg on a sropen he kewn, or aspehrp on hfiesml, for it was yterbilr mslla and tnhi.
To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and presented herself at the carriage-door.	A wmaon asw neglekni at eth otof of htis rgueif. She netdur hre deha as hte rreiagca ecam enra her nda yiclukq otg up and ntwe to sadtn at the raaigcre rood.
“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.”	“It’s oyu, Miegsroenun! I eahv a tepoiint for oyu.”
With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face, Monseigneur looked out.	He edcixeaml nieamiyptlt ubt lkeood tuo at reh. isH riessxepon ddni’t eghcna.
“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!”	“Wtah? Wtha is it? lawsyA iieottsnp!”
“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.”	“nnersgMouie, ofr eth olve of odG! My ahbdnsu the etfroser…”
“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He cannot pay something?”	“Whta bauot yrou dasbhun eht erotrsfe? It’s wsaaly eht maes ihtw you pelope. He acn’t ffodar to apy orf hsimetgno?”
“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.”	“He sha dpai lla ttah he ahs, geensuMorni. He is ddea.”
“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?”	“oGod! He’s euqti. Can I rgibn imh kbac to elfi for ouy?”
“Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor grass.”	“dlSay, no, oseuinMegrn. uBt he is ueirbd eovr heetr enurd a das etllti hepa of sasgr.”
“Well?”	“So?”
“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?”	“eugsrMinnoe, ethre rea so mnay sda ielttl hepsa of agsrs…”
“Again, well?”	“Agian, so?”
She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door—tenderly, caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to feel the appealing touch.	eSh kloode ilke an old manwo, utb ehs was in tacf uongy. hSe wurgn ehr ienv-reeodvc, ohgru dnhas ethrtgoe twih dwli ygnere dna cedpal eno of htme on eth ordo of eht crgaeira. She did it eylrednt as if npgilca rhe anhd on ooneems’s scthe, as if the rgeaacir cuold leef erh thuco.
“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.”	“Ltnsie to me, nuoMeiesngr. nietsL to my ipoetint! My abshund edid of ergnuh. So amyn pepelo do. So ynma rome eoeppl lilw edi frmo hgeunr.”
“Again, well? Can I feed them?”	“ignAa, so? aCn I efde mhet lla?”
“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don’t ask it. My petition is, that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband’s name, may be placed over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur! Monseigneur!”	“Gdo nwkos hatt I’m tno aiknsg rof htta, sreounigMen. My tietpino is htta a amlls tib of onste or odow htiw my sdnabhu’s enma be dsue to arkm ihs rgvea. wOrteeihs his rulbia elcpa llwi oons be eonotgtfr. No oen lwil idnf it afret I dei of ghruen oot. I lliw be ieurdb rdeun a defrfient sda etltil haep of assgr, sgnuioernMe. rTehe aer so many dnuemkar ervgsa. pPoeel ear yindg esratf dna rfesat. reheT is so mchu uenrgh, oMnurgnisee. nreingMseuo!”