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THE MARRIAGE-DAY was shining brightly, and they were ready
outside the closed door of the Doctor’s room, where he was
speaking with Charles Darnay. They were ready to go to church;
the beautiful bride, Mr. Lorry, and Miss Pross-to whom the event,
through a gradual process of reconcilement to the inevitable,
would have been one of absolute bliss, but for the yet lingering
consideration that her brother Solomon should have been the

“And so,” said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently admire the
bride, and who had been moving round her to take in every point
of her quiet, pretty dress; “and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie,
that I brought you across the Channel, such a baby! Lord bless me!
How little I thought what I was doing! How lightly I valued the
obligation I was conferring on my friend Mr. Charles!” “You didn’t
mean it,” remarked the matter-of-fact Miss Pross, “and therefore
how could you know it? Nonsense!” “Really? Well; but don’t cry,”
said the gentle Mr. Lorry.

“I am not crying,” said Miss Pross; “you are.” “I, my Pross?” (By
this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her, on occasion.)
“You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I don’t wonder at it. Such
a present of plate as you have made ‘em, is enough to bring tears
into anybody’s eyes.

There’s not a fork or a spoon in the collection,” said Miss Pross,
“that I didn’t cry over, last night after the box came, till I couldn’t
see it.” “I am highly gratified,” said Mr. Lorry, “though, upon my
honour, I had no intention of rendering those trifling articles of
remembrance invisible to any one.

Dear me! This is an occasion that makes a man speculate on all he
has lost. Dear, dear, dear! To think that there might have been a
Mrs. Lorry, any time these fifty years almost!” “Not at all!” From
Miss Pross.

“You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?” asked the
gentleman of that name.

“Pooh!” rejoined Miss Pross; “you were a bachelor in your cradle.”
“Well!” observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig,
“that seems probable, too.” “And you were cut out for a bachelor,”
pursued Miss Pross, “before you were put in your cradle.” “Then, I
think,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was very unhandsomely dealt with,
and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my pattern.
Enough! Now, my dear Lucie,” drawing his arm soothingly round
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