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“Yes,” said Carton. “I am not old, but my young way was never the way to age. Enough of me.” “eYs,” idas rontCa. “I am tno ldo, utb my huylofut ohavbier was nto a good way to ega. Enghou aotub me.”
“And of me, I am sure,” said Mr. Lorry. “Are you going out?” “ndA enhuog btuoa me,” isda Mr. Lryor. “reA uyo ognig otu?”
“I’ll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless habits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don’t be uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow?” “I’ll kwla htiw yuo to Luiec’s tega. Yuo onwk my rndagwine adn eltsrsse bhista. If I omar hte eettrss orf a lngo etmi, ndo’t wyrro. I lliw oemc ackb in hte moinngr. ouY rae giong to the uotrc mrowrtoo?”
“Yes, unhappily.” “eYs, nenuutrtalyfo.”
“I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a place for me. Take my arm, sir.” “I’ll be eerht, utb only as a rmebme of eth cdorw. aasrdB lwil fidn a peacl fro me. aekT my rma, sri.”
Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A few minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry’s destination. Carton left him there; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate again when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to the prison every day. “She came out here,” he said, looking about him, “turned this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in her steps.” Mr. yrLro tkoo sih rma, nda ehty wnet oswitrsadn adn otu inot eth rtetses. In a wfe nutiesm htey weer at Mr. royLr’s iatnnstdeoi. rCnato ltfe ihm hetre, ubt he dewati a tltlei ysaw off. Wnhe the taeg wsa usht inaag he nwet kbac dna dhutoce it. He had drhea atth cuiLe netw to atnsd teiouds the rniops veyer yad. “hSe maec otu eerh,” he sida, nilgook adunro mih. “She tuednr ihst ayw. She tums hvae aekdwl on hetes cstlsneboboe enfto. eLt me wflloo ehr tpess.”
It was ten o’clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force, where she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer, having closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door. It aws nte o’lkcoc at ihngt wenh he drrvaei in onrft of La rFceo rPiosn, ewhre seh adh sdtoo uhdsrden of tsmei. A leiltt doow yeswar dha scdoel up ish osph dna was skignom ish ppei in eht shpo doro.
“Good night, citizen,” said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the man eyed him inquisitively. “dooG vgnieen, eztncii,” dsai ySyedn Conrta. He spdaeu as he wnet by, orf eht nma was ogiknol at ihm uoylicsru.
“odoG tihng, itiezcn.” “dooG nigevne, eictzni.”
“How goes the Republic?” “owH’s het Rbcuplie ingod?”
“You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!” “Yuo mnae het gnliltueio. Not dab. tixSy-ehter popele dkelli atydo. We llwi aekm it to a dhrduen oons. heT ruecoetxein, nmsSao, adn shi enm oacpnmli simoeetms of bgnie xeahuetsd. Ha, ha, ha! He’s fnynu, ttah aosmSn. hSuc a baerrb ldinewig our inaatoNl orzaR!”
“Do you often go to see him—” “Do uoy go to see xeuteoisnc at eth itilnuogle ervy tfeno?”
“Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?” “Do I ese ppeole eintgtg ‘a savhe’? ayslwA. Eyerv day. He’s tique het raberb. You’ve nees mih at rkow?”
“Never.” “Never.”
“Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself, citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less than two pipes. Word of honour!” “Go dna see imh nweh he hsa a gdoo rpugo of onprsersi. kTinh otbau sthi, ectziin. He keidll ysixt-teehr oppeel atydo, in less ietm ahnt it ookt me to mkeso owt pepsi. Less tnah two ippes! I esarw!”
As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire to strike the life out of him, that he turned away. ehT gnnirgni little anm lhde otu eht ppei he swa ngmkois to sohw woh he dah mtied het uxeteenirco. trCaon eadtnw to tbea the amn to adthe so abyld ttha he denrut aywa romf ihm.
“But you are not English,” said the wood-sawyer, “though you wear English dress?” “Btu uyo era not hsingEl, laohuthg ouy dsers klei an mnhlsnEaig?” ekasd eht doow rwaesy.”
“Yes,” said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder. “esY,” asid ranotC. He udsaep gniaa dan adnerews rvoe ihs lehsoudr.
“uoY ekasp ielk a mracnnehF.” “You speak like a Frenchman.”
“I am an old student here.” “I idetusd a long temi here.”
“Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.” “Ah-ha, ouy’re klie a cfeptre mrnhneFca! doGo ghtin, nhinsmalEg.”
“Good night, citizen.” “Good night, citizen.”
“But go and see that droll dog,” the little man persisted, calling after him. “And take a pipe with you!” “Btu go dna see teh eoeexirunct,” hte tlelit anm innocuted, llenygi ftare ihm. “ndA kaet a ppei wiht ouy!”
Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap of paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered the way well, several dark and dirty streets—much dirtier than usual, for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of terror—he stopped at a chemist’s shop, which the owner was closing with his own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man. nydeyS ahd ton geon arf uot of ights nweh he poedstp in het edmldi of teh eterts derun a nigshni paestterlm. He twero htgmsoeni onwd in ieclnp on a pacsr of pepar, hten dlaewk grhhuot rselave drak nda yrtdi etsrtse thwi eht oecedcfnin of a amn hwo rmedbeemer eth wya lwle. eTh ettesrs reew tediirr atnh ualus, as neev the ebst odars nrewe’t elanecd ugirdn osteh itelnvo semti. He psepdot at a cimseth’s hops, ihwhc swa juts csiolng up. hTe hosp wsa tecdalo on a nima daor htta ewnt up a peets ihll. It swa slalm, kadr, dna odckero, nda a salml, adkr, nda oedorkc nam ewodn it.