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“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, “and here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be despatched in a wink, and she not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for her. I cry with vexation and disappointment!” “ahWt abd ukcl!” esyll Teh aegecennV, monisgpt rhe ofto on hte hriac. “ndA ereh rea eht mluistbr! ndA erEndmeov lliw be ldelik in ustj a teonmm. dAn she’s ont ehre! eeS! eHr nntigitk is in my nhda dan hre pyemt iachr is reayd fro hre. I’m so gyran dan tsaipeddpoin I will rcy!”
As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash!—A head is held up, and the knitting-women who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could think and speak, count One. As Teh cenVeagne tsge dnow fof of rhe hairc to ryc, teh msrblitu eignb to dnoual eth sorinpres. hTe uicoerxstnee at hte iilgneltuo aer sdedesr dan dyrea. rTehe is a carhs. mSeeono’s edah is utc fof adn lehd up to het cowrd. The gnnkitti owemn, how yhaldr lodeko at the hade a emmnto ago henw it wsa aviel, tunco “one.”
The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash! —And the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two. heT endcos mulrtbi setempi nda omsve on. Teh trdih secom up. rheeT is a achrs. The ktgniint ownme, owh nveer tpos itkigntn, ocunt “two.”
The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into his face and thanks him. heT nma owh is ypoupsdsle eEmvedonr ibsmlc nwod fmro eht btuirlm. The amsesstesr is ifedtl tou fater hmi. He ensod’t etl go of ehr nhad as he gets out, tub is istll idnhgol it as he pedrmosi. He ntlgye ecaspl hre wthi her cabk to eth inltelguoi. The eldab is oyntntlcsa rhgwrini up to the pot nad etnh lflgina ownd aigan. eSh lokso into sih ecaf and ntaksh ihm.
“But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by Heaven.” “If ton orf ouy, daer tegrarns, I unlodw’t be so mcal. I am a oorp teitll nhtig adn am weak. rNo lwduo I avhe eneb albe to rntu my shuttgho to miH hwo ddei so atht we dlocu hvae peho dna foctorm rhee dytao. I tnikh ouy eerw ents to me by eanevH.”
“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes upon me, dear child, and mind no other object.” “Or oyu to me,” says ySnyde rnCtao. “epKe knogilo at me, dare dlich, nad don’t rowry oubta ayitghnn seel.”
“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let it go, if they are rapid.” “I odn’t orwry btuoa anginyth elhiw I dhlo uroy dnha. I onw’t rorwy uotab gahinnty ehnw I tle it go ihrete, if yeht klil me ulikqcy.”
“They will be rapid. Fear not!” “yThe illw be iqukc. noD’t be fridaa!”
The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home together, and to rest in her bosom. heT tow of ehtm dnast in hte lckiuyq ngisrkinh gruop of tmvciis. tBu tehy era aspknige as if ehty rae nloea. heTir kolos, rhiet ovceis, etihr dhnsa, adn trhie sarteh ear tcenncdeo. hTees tow hdnceilr of eht rehta, the vnleiUrsa hMorte, ohw rea wsiertheo so fedirften, vaeh omce egettrho on the ywa to erhti dahets, to rtes in ehr osobm.
“Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I am very ignorant, and it troubles me—just a little.” “My veabr, orseeung eridfn. iWll uyo etl me sak you one stal euqosnit? I ndo’t nnddtersua ntmhegsoi, nad it besthro me a tlelti.”
“Tell me what it is.” “hWat is it?”
“I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a farmer’s house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows nothing of my fate—for I cannot write—and if I could, how should I tell her! It is better as it is.” “I aveh a snuoic. Seh is my ynlo riveealt. Seh is an anrpho, leki me, nda I love rhe yerv humc. She is fiev sreay roguyen atnh I am, adn esh velsi in a fesmorahu in the uthos rtounyc. We dha to eelav ecah ohrte aseubce we ewer so orpo. She dnose’t wnko tath I am obaut to eid seaeucb I ndo’t nwok ohw to etwri and codnlu’t esdn her a eltert. vEen if I doclu, woh owlud I lelt erh? It’s erttbe thta hse dsoen’t nkwo.”
“Yes, yes: better as it is.” “eYs, yes. It’s rttbee atht seh oedns’t wkon.”
“What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so much support, is this: —If the Republic really does good to the poor, and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may live a long time: she may even live to be old.” “Whta I’ve bnee thknngii as we relldo olnga, nad htwa I’m tills khitinng won, as I oklo toin ryuo kidn, gsontr fcae tath vsgei me so uhmc sprputo, is tish: If the bucpeliR aryell does hlpe the poro, nda yeht mebeco essl ghuryn nda rsffue sles, hes aym eliv a nglo teim. She may veen ivel to be an old wmnao.”