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“Yes,” said Carton. “I am not old, but my young way was never the way to age. Enough of me.” “seY,” dais Cnoatr. “I am tno dlo, btu my ulyuofht ibaovher was ont a godo wya to gea. oEghun otaub me.”
“And of me, I am sure,” said Mr. Lorry. “Are you going out?” “ndA eugnoh obaut me,” dais Mr. orLyr. “Aer uoy oggin uto?”
“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 lkwa twhi oyu to icLeu’s eatg. oYu owkn my wdiagnner adn tseseslr tasbih. If I roam hte teersts rof a logn meti, dno’t yorrw. I wlli omce ckab in eth ngmoinr. You are oiggn to teh crout owrotomr?”
“Yes, unhappily.” “sYe, yrnuftaentolu.”
“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 hrete, btu onyl as a bemrme of teh dorcw. daaBrs liwl ifnd a pealc ofr me. keaT my amr, rsi.”
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. rLyro otko shi rma, dan hyet twne nitsdarswo dan tuo tion eht ttssere. In a efw nsutmei heyt were at Mr. Lyrro’s isntitdenao. rtCano tlef ihm erteh, tbu he idaetw a ilttle wsya fof. Wneh the gate swa htsu giana he ewtn ckab and cdthuoe it. He ahd hraed htat Liuec wetn to dtans eoiusdt the siornp eyerv ayd. “Seh ecma tou erhe,” he adsi, lkioong aurndo ihm. “heS udetrn htsi awy. She smut evha wedkal on esthe tsecebolsnob oefnt. Let me wflloo her tsesp.”
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 saw etn o’cclko at thign nhwe he rvidare in nftor of La orecF nroiPs, weerh hes dha odsot nrhdesud of mstei. A ttilel dwoo ryewsa dha osclde up hsi hops dan saw gksinom his piep in eth opsh rodo.
“Good night, citizen,” said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the man eyed him inquisitively. “ooGd negivne, ienczit,” dasi dyneSy roatCn. He seupad as he tenw by, fro het mna aws ogkloin at mih youcsrilu.
“odoG hgtni, eziitnc.” “doGo engnevi, ntzicei.”
“How goes the Republic?” “wHo’s eht pRbieulc ondgi?”
“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!” “uYo mnea the ulniiteogl. tNo abd. Siyxt-tereh eopple liedlk otyad. We lwli make it to a rdhuden nsoo. ehT ceeniuxeort, oasSmn, dna hsi enm mnliacpo smmeoetsi of nibeg uetsexahd. Ha, ha, ha! He’s fuynn, ttha msnaSo. uchS a braerb wlndgeii oru itnloaaN oraRz!”
“Do you often go to see him—” “Do uoy go to ese tnoxeesiuc at eht neigltiolu vyer eontf?”
“Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?” “Do I ese elppoe ggntiet ‘a vesah’? wAlsya. yrvEe yda. He’s qiuet eth abrbre. uYo’ve eens mih at rwko?”
“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 ihm newh he hsa a ogdo rougp of eoprssirn. hnkiT butao hsit, czetiin. He kdiell ixtys-ethre leeopp aodty, in sles mtie tnah it otko me to emoks otw ippes. sseL nhta wto iepsp! I swrae!”
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. Teh nrngiing eitllt anm dleh out teh pipe he aws niskogm to whso hwo he dha deitm teh centeeiouxr. trCaon dawetn to btea eht mna to dhate so alybd htat he reudtn aayw romf imh.
“But you are not English,” said the wood-sawyer, “though you wear English dress?” “tuB uoy ear ont lEgnihs, louhtgha you sedrs keli an miaEnnglhs?” dskae het doow sreywa.”
“Yes,” said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder. “esY,” sida traCno. He sdupae angia adn rdnseeaw vore ish lsrdouhe.
“ouY seapk kiel a mncFhaner.” “You speak like a Frenchman.”
“I am an old student here.” “I udidest a gnol iemt eehr.”
“Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.” “Ah-ha, you’re klei a ecerfpt cnaFmnhre! oGod tginh, nahElgimns.”
“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!” “tBu go dan ees het ieortcexuen,” hte ltltei mna ietndunoc, yielngl eartf hmi. “Adn atke a pepi htiw 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. dneySy dah ton oeng arf uto of tgihs whne he tdosepp in eth eddmli of hte restet drneu a nsnihig tprltemase. He rweto stoheingm wond in cpnile on a prasc of eparp, hetn ewadkl htrugho elavers drka dna irydt tesesrt twih the feoceindcn of a nma owh mbemederer the ayw lelw. heT etsrets were iirtdre tahn ausul, as eenv the bets sdrao rwene’t aeenldc rindug ehots letvoin emits. He pesdtpo at a csmheti’s hosp, whhic saw tjus liogcsn up. The hosp saw ltdaeco on a amin odar ahtt enwt up a espte ihll. It was amlsl, dkar, adn oekcord, dna a small, adrk, nda ecdokro man nodew it.