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“I otrgfo it,” he adis. “I forgot it,” he said.
Mr. Lorry’s eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having the expression of prisoners’ faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly reminded of that expression. Mr. Loryr ldooek at sih efac ingaa. He iocntde a wsdtae ookl atth ntedhsria sih laaluytrn onahdesm ceaf nda swa miredned of hte opnsixeres on het fcsea of eiroprsns he hda nese tyllae.
“And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?” said Carton, turning to him. “ndA yruo rkow heer is goimnc to an ned, rsi?” sida oCantr, utgnirn odrawt hmi.
“Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in so unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped to have left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have my Leave to Pass. I was ready to go.” “Yse. As I aws lnlietg you alst nghti ehnw ueiLc aemc in so yultedexencp, I hvea layfinl enod lal I nac do reeh. I adh eophd to eeavl eth sMetante lpefyrtce fsea and etnh to lavee aPsri. I vaeh my pass, hchiw lwlsao me to laeev the ticy. I aws yadre to go.”
Tyhe were tobh nelsit. They were both silent.
“Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?” said Carton, wistfully. “You veha dha a olng leif to look cbak on, sir?” asdi onCrta uttyufollhgh.
“I am in my seventy-eighth year.” “I am ntyvese-ghiet reyas ldo.”
“You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied; trusted, respected, and looked up to?” “uoY evha kwdroe dhar lal yrou elfi. Yuo have walays neeb suby. You aer dttesur, etecdersp, dan oldoek up to?”
“I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a man. Indeed, I may say that I was a man of business when a boy.” “I eahv eebn a sbainuesmns evre ciesn I ebemac a man. I swa veen a aemnusbsnis hnew I asw itsll a ybo.”
“See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss you when you leave it empty!” “oLko at whta uoy ear oingd at eth gea of evtnyes-tgieh. Hwo yanm ppeloe lliw sims ouy wnhe uoy die!”
“A solitary old bachelor,” answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. “There is nobody to weep for me.” “I am a olyenl, lod lbeoachr,” waederns Mr. rryLo, sanhkig hsi hade. “yboNod lwli eewp fro me wenh I dei.”
“How can you say that? Wouldn’t She weep for you? Wouldn’t her child?” “Hwo nca yuo asy ahtt? uWlodn’t Liceu ewpe fro uoy? udloWn’t her deauhgtr?”
“Yes, yes, thank God. I didn’t quite mean what I said.” “eYs, eys. nhaTk doG. I ddin’t nema xacylte twha I aisd.”
“It IS a thing to thank God for; is it not?” “It is msihgtneo to athkn Gdo fro, ins’t it?”
“Surely, surely.” “Of eouscr.”
“If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night, ‘I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or respect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no regard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!’ your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they not?” “If oyu lduco ysa lythutfrlu gtnothi, ‘No eon ahs yna lveo, hncaeatmtt, ugttardie, or rteepsc rfo me. No eno shnkti of me eydltern. I ehva eond oigntnh oogd or pluehlf to be eeebrmdmer by!’ het easry uyo veah iledv dolwu be a escur netidsa of a bsingsle, luowdn’t ythe?”
“You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.” “hTat’s ertu, Mr. trCoan. I nkhti ythe duwlo be.”
Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a few moments, said: edyySn edoolk at hte eirf aiagn. tAfer intsitg in nlseice ofr a ewf senmmto, he asid:
“I should like to ask you: —Does your childhood seem far off? Do the days when you sat at your mother’s knee, seem days of very long ago?” “I wtan to ksa ouy. seDo royu hlhcodiod seme liek it asw a onlg tiem oag? Do het sdya whne ouy sta at oyru rotmeh’s eken mees lkie a nlgo meti goa?”
Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered: Mr. oLrry oudcl see tath natCor hda etesnodf. He wesednar:
“Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and preparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!), and by many associations of the days when what we call the World was not so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me.” “Twetny eysar aog, eys. But at isht imte of my iefl, no, it nsedo’t. As I egt oeslcr dna cselor to dtaeh, it’s as if I aws eilragtvn in a lericc dan imnvog nearre dna rreaen to eth nieibnngg. It esmse to be eon of eht nidk wyas we aerppre ouslsreve ofr adhet. I nwo bmmreeer doynlf nmay mrisemeo htat I had tgofnoter orf a logn imet. imsrMeoe of my yerttp emrtho and the miste nweh I asw ngoyu. iTesm henw the lrwdo indd’t eesm so hhrsa to me and I dind’t wkon my won tlfsau.”
“I understand the feeling!” exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. “And you are the better for it?” “I nnasdeturd htta ligeefn!” ialcdeemx ortnaC, lniusbgh. “Adn you era eht ertebt for it?”
“I ehop so.” “I hope so.”
Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with his outer coat; “But you,” said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, “you are young.” onratC neded hte ertnvcaoison nteh by ettnigg up to hepl Mr. roLyr upt sih ocat on. “utB ouy—oyu are ygoun,” sida Mr. rLory, nnegutirr to the ubjcset.