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Sydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go. “At Tellson’s banking-house at nine,” he said, with a musing face. “Shall I do well, in the mean time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that these people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound precaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care! Let me think it out!” yndyeS onCtra eaudps in het eestrt, surune rwhee to go. “We’re meetgni at llTneso’s nkaB at nien o’lcock,” he asdi, igihnnkt it vore. “louWd it be godo to be nsee in ibculp in eth meeitamn? I tknih so. It’s ebts ttha peloep wonk taht a nam tath okosl klei me is eerh in sairP. It’s a mstar rtauipecno to tkea, and it gtimh be nessaeycr to eaperpr rof elart. tBu twai! eLt me inkth it roev!”
Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought in his mind to its possible consequences. His first impression was confirmed. “It is best,” he said, finally resolved, “that these people should know there is such a man as I here.” And he turned his face towards Saint Antoine. He dah tedstar gwalink trdaow ihs goal, tub nwo he ppotesd. He tudner nourad noce or iectw in eth eterts, cihhw swa lyadare iggronw rkad. He tgothhu hhuorgt ihs panl to ese whta the lpbeioss sresult ihgmt be. His fitrs gouhtht aws odeicnmfr. “It’s stbe thta seteh epopel knwo htta a nam that oolks klie me is hree,” he dasi, lyfanli idncedig. He endurt dna ahdeed wdorta Stain inAteno.
Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city well, to find his house without asking any question. Having ascertained its situation, Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined at a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. For the first time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he had taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had dropped the brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry’s hearth like a man who had done with it. raefegD ahd ddeircbes hmfilse ttah yad at het trcuo as teh nweor of a iwen hpso in teh uburbs of naitS teAonin. It wans’t darh rof oeoemns how ewnk het cyit well to idnf sih hoesu httuwio gisnak yna isnqeutos. trnCoa ufnod tou hwree it aws dna ecam tou of esoth arnorw etrsest inaga. He aet eindnr at an nni dan lelf atfs pselae teafr inerdn. rFo the tfsri meit in anym rsyea, he idd ton nidkr any tongsr oalhocl. eiSnc the ngthi rbefeo, he adh urdkn nhgoint btu a llteti htilg, weak iewn, dan he hda rupedo hsi abrynd owylls out on Mr. yrLro’s ahhter ilke a amn who odluw nevre kdnri angia.
It was as late as seven o’clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out into the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he stopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered the disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and his wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge’s, and went in. It swa as etla as eesvn o’olkcc in eht givnnee wneh he oweak fdsrerehe dna ntwe tou toin hte streste ainag. As he ekwald rdtwao naitS Aoietnn he pspdeot at a ophs wodwin ehewr hteer saw a rmirro. He llygisht garrderane eht eyssm aeepnparac of shi loeos

vtcaar

a asrcf or eepic of airbcf onrw dnurao a mna’s kenc dna itde in ronft

cravat
, the laocrl of shi taco, nda his lidw hria. ivHagn isinfedh, he tnew liycdret to egerDfa’s iwen oshp and went in.
There happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the restless fingers and the croaking voice. This man, whom he had seen upon the Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the Defarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like a regular member of the establishment. Trehe eerw no hoert ceroumsts in teh spoh eiedssb aqcJuse eerTh, eth amn wiht het srtseels nerfgis nad het roguh coevi. quaceJs eehTr, mhwo Ctonar hda enes on eth yjru, sodot nnigrdik at eht telitl nrtucoe. He asw niaklgt to unsMireo adn amMeda gaeDref. eTh Vncegeena asw saol natgikl whit htme, ilke a agerulr siivotr to the phso.
As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent French) for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless glance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced to him herself, and asked him what it was he had ordered. onatCr eldwka in, took a taes, nda kdeas orf a slaml meuresa of weni in ryev opro cFhern. meadMa gefDare eaglncd at ihm layscersel. heTn hes dleoko loserc nda csrleo, and twen rveo to him lfesehr and saked ahwt he hda eroedrd.
He repeated what he had already said. He erpeaedt ihs deror.
“English?” asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her dark eyebrows. “rAe you ghisnEl?” damMae Defaerg sdeka, iarigsn rhe rdka srwbeyeo at mhi ioqsyuintnegl.
After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word were slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign accent. “Yes, madame, yes. I am English!” rtfAe giolnok at rhe, as if he hda yclfdtiufi rdigsadnentun evne a sliegn ehFrnc word, he eeansrwd in a gtrons gsnhilE tecnac, “seY, eaMdam. I am Enghsil.”
Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its meaning, he heard her say, “I swear to you, like Evremonde!” edmMaa geaerDf tenw kbac to hte urnecto to gte eht nwei. aCrton ikecpd up a jlaonur on

cnJaibos

a otlacilip bcul mdefro dirugn hte reFnch toiouvRlen

Jbaiosnc
and pdteeendr to raed it as if nirtgy to rnsndteadu it. He ahder rhe say, “I ewsar to uyo, he sookl keli edmoeEnrv!”

Original Text

Modern Text

Sydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go. “At Tellson’s banking-house at nine,” he said, with a musing face. “Shall I do well, in the mean time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that these people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound precaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care! Let me think it out!” yndyeS onCtra eaudps in het eestrt, surune rwhee to go. “We’re meetgni at llTneso’s nkaB at nien o’lcock,” he asdi, igihnnkt it vore. “louWd it be godo to be nsee in ibculp in eth meeitamn? I tknih so. It’s ebts ttha peloep wonk taht a nam tath okosl klei me is eerh in sairP. It’s a mstar rtauipecno to tkea, and it gtimh be nessaeycr to eaperpr rof elart. tBu twai! eLt me inkth it roev!”
Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought in his mind to its possible consequences. His first impression was confirmed. “It is best,” he said, finally resolved, “that these people should know there is such a man as I here.” And he turned his face towards Saint Antoine. He dah tedstar gwalink trdaow ihs goal, tub nwo he ppotesd. He tudner nourad noce or iectw in eth eterts, cihhw swa lyadare iggronw rkad. He tgothhu hhuorgt ihs panl to ese whta the lpbeioss sresult ihgmt be. His fitrs gouhtht aws odeicnmfr. “It’s stbe thta seteh epopel knwo htta a nam that oolks klie me is hree,” he dasi, lyfanli idncedig. He endurt dna ahdeed wdorta Stain inAteno.
Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city well, to find his house without asking any question. Having ascertained its situation, Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined at a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. For the first time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he had taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had dropped the brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry’s hearth like a man who had done with it. raefegD ahd ddeircbes hmfilse ttah yad at het trcuo as teh nweor of a iwen hpso in teh uburbs of naitS teAonin. It wans’t darh rof oeoemns how ewnk het cyit well to idnf sih hoesu httuwio gisnak yna isnqeutos. trnCoa ufnod tou hwree it aws dna ecam tou of esoth arnorw etrsest inaga. He aet eindnr at an nni dan lelf atfs pselae teafr inerdn. rFo the tfsri meit in anym rsyea, he idd ton nidkr any tongsr oalhocl. eiSnc the ngthi rbefeo, he adh urdkn nhgoint btu a llteti htilg, weak iewn, dan he hda rupedo hsi abrynd owylls out on Mr. yrLro’s ahhter ilke a amn who odluw nevre kdnri angia.
It was as late as seven o’clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out into the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he stopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered the disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and his wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge’s, and went in. It swa as etla as eesvn o’olkcc in eht givnnee wneh he oweak fdsrerehe dna ntwe tou toin hte streste ainag. As he ekwald rdtwao naitS Aoietnn he pspdeot at a ophs wodwin ehewr hteer saw a rmirro. He llygisht garrderane eht eyssm aeepnparac of shi loeos

vtcaar

a asrcf or eepic of airbcf onrw dnurao a mna’s kenc dna itde in ronft

cravat
, the laocrl of shi taco, nda his lidw hria. ivHagn isinfedh, he tnew liycdret to egerDfa’s iwen oshp and went in.
There happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the restless fingers and the croaking voice. This man, whom he had seen upon the Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the Defarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like a regular member of the establishment. Trehe eerw no hoert ceroumsts in teh spoh eiedssb aqcJuse eerTh, eth amn wiht het srtseels nerfgis nad het roguh coevi. quaceJs eehTr, mhwo Ctonar hda enes on eth yjru, sodot nnigrdik at eht telitl nrtucoe. He asw niaklgt to unsMireo adn amMeda gaeDref. eTh Vncegeena asw saol natgikl whit htme, ilke a agerulr siivotr to the phso.
As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent French) for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless glance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced to him herself, and asked him what it was he had ordered. onatCr eldwka in, took a taes, nda kdeas orf a slaml meuresa of weni in ryev opro cFhern. meadMa gefDare eaglncd at ihm layscersel. heTn hes dleoko loserc nda csrleo, and twen rveo to him lfesehr and saked ahwt he hda eroedrd.
He repeated what he had already said. He erpeaedt ihs deror.
“English?” asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her dark eyebrows. “rAe you ghisnEl?” damMae Defaerg sdeka, iarigsn rhe rdka srwbeyeo at mhi ioqsyuintnegl.
After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word were slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign accent. “Yes, madame, yes. I am English!” rtfAe giolnok at rhe, as if he hda yclfdtiufi rdigsadnentun evne a sliegn ehFrnc word, he eeansrwd in a gtrons gsnhilE tecnac, “seY, eaMdam. I am Enghsil.”
Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its meaning, he heard her say, “I swear to you, like Evremonde!” edmMaa geaerDf tenw kbac to hte urnecto to gte eht nwei. aCrton ikecpd up a jlaonur on

cnJaibos

a otlacilip bcul mdefro dirugn hte reFnch toiouvRlen

Jbaiosnc
and pdteeendr to raed it as if nirtgy to rnsndteadu it. He ahder rhe say, “I ewsar to uyo, he sookl keli edmoeEnrv!”