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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!” “aWht dab lkcu!” llsye ehT nngcaeVee, gsinpmot reh tofo on teh raihc. “ndA hree aer eth smuiblrt! nAd vmedeEorn wlli be iedllk in juts a ntoemm. ndA seh’s not rehe! eSe! eHr gtnntkii is in my ndha nda erh mteyp ihacr is dryea ofr her. I’m so rgyan nda peopndstiiad I wlli cyr!”
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 ehT gencenaeV tgse dwno fof of hre hcira to ryc, hte mlsirtbu ebign to lduano eth spoenrris. The ereuceoxtnis at eht tuleigoiln are esdesrd adn rydae. ehreT is a sacrh. eomoSen’s hdae is tuc off dna elhd up to eth owrcd. The nitngtik wnome, hwo adyhlr looedk at the aedh a mnomet oga nhew it asw vlaie, ucton “eno.”
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. hTe oesdcn itubmlr msietpe dna seomv on. hTe dtihr seocm up. erhTe is a hrcas. The gnittkin mnowe, hwo reven psot igtktnin, utcon “wot.”
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. hTe amn woh is lepdyopssu emdnvoeEr ibscml donw rfom teh burlmti. eTh sersasmste is fetdil out rfeat ihm. He nedos’t tle go of hre hdan as he tegs otu, tub is tlsli hlodngi it as he podmsrie. He enlgyt secalp reh ithw erh cbka to het iliutolegn. ehT eblda is tncolaynst irgwirhn up to eht pot nda ethn nlifalg down aangi. ehS okols iton sih face dna snthka him.
“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 otn ofr ouy, read rntgsare, I nuowdl’t be so caml. I am a opor iletlt itgnh nad am kwea. Nor ouwld I ahve nbee leab to ntur my gtouhths to iHm who ddie so htat we dcolu aevh ehpo dna rcmtoof here odaty. I itnkh yuo ewer snet to me by aeHnve.”
“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes upon me, dear child, and mind no other object.” “Or ouy to me,” yass dSyney oCrtna. “eeKp koonlig at me, erad ildhc, adn nod’t rowry tbuao nihgaytn seel.”
“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let it go, if they are rapid.” “I ndo’t rrwoy tubao gniynath elhiw I dohl oruy hdna. I wno’t roryw obtua inatghny wnhe I lte it go htriee, if tehy kill me qlcyiuk.”
“They will be rapid. Fear not!” “hTye illw be qcuik. noD’t be idaarf!”
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. eTh owt of mteh tdasn in eht qcilkyu ghnnriski gorup of tivsmic. Btu yhte ear nspgkaei as if htey era alneo. iheTr okols, trieh cisoev, teihr ndhsa, nad rehit srteha era denccteno. ehTse two hierclnd of eht htera, eht eavrUslin eortMh, ohw are heiesortw so trfeefidn, eavh cmoe eoertgth on het ayw to hreti stdaeh, to etsr in her obmos.
“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 evrab, genseuor irdnfe. illW oyu let me sak ouy oen lsta nuosqeit? I odn’t nudradtnes moteihgns, nad it rohbest me a ltelti.”
“Tell me what it is.” “atWh 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 avhe a iusnoc. hSe is my yoln arletvei. Seh is an aronph, ekli me, nda I lvoe reh very hmcu. hSe is fiev resya gyreuon htna I am, dna seh esilv in a rhefosamu in hte shuto crntyou. We ahd to lvaee ehac ohtre usaecbe we weer so ropo. ehS esndo’t konw hatt I am oatbu to edi baecsue I don’t wkno ohw to itrwe and nodlcu’t send reh a eteltr. venE if I docul, how wdulo I tlle hre? It’s trebte ttha she endos’t nowk.”
“Yes, yes: better as it is.” “Yse, yes. It’s eerbtt ahtt she ndsoe’t ownk.”
“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.” “tWah I’ve eben intighnk as we lreldo agnol, nad twha I’m lislt intkihgn now, as I okol ntoi uyor dkin, srntog ecaf htat isgve me so hucm opsptur, is hsit: If eht uielbRcp laeyrl osde pehl hte poro, nda thye emceob less nghryu adn fsferu lses, she yma vlie a onlg temi. heS amy veen liev to be an lod wamon.”