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mother’s cheek, as the spirit departed from her embrace that had
been entrusted to it. Suffer them and forbid them not. They see my
Father’s face. O Father, blessed words!

Thus, the rustling of an Angel’s wings got blended with the other
echoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that
breath of Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-
tomb were mingled with them also, and both were audible to
Lucie, in a hushed murmur-like the breathing of a summer sea
asleep upon a sandy shore-as the little Lucie, comically studious at
the task of the morning, or dressing a doll at her mother’s footstool,
chattered in the tongues of the Two Cities that were blended in her

The Echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton.
Some halfdozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of
coming in uninvited, and would sit among them through the
evening, as he had once done often. He never came there heated
with wine. And one other thing regarding him was whispered in
the echoes, which has been whispered by all true echoes for ages
and ages.

No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a
blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a
mother, but her children had a strange sympathy with him-an
instinctive delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities
are touched in such a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so
here. Carton was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her
chubby arms, and he kept his place with her as she grew. The little
boy had spoken of him, almost at the last. “Poor Carton! Kiss him
for me!” Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like
some great engine forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged
his useful friend in his wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat
so favoured is usually in a rough plight, and mostly under water,
so, Sydney had a swamped life of it. But, easy and strong custom,
unhappily so much easier and stronger in him than any stimulating
sense of desert or disgrace, made it the life he was to lead; and he
no more thought of emerging from his state of lion’s jackal, than
any real jackal may be supposed to think of rising to be a lion.
Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow with property and
three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them but
the straight hair of their dumpling heads.

These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of
the most offensive quality from every pore, had walked before him
like three sheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as
pupils to Lucie’s husband: delicately saying “Halloa! here are three
lumps of bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic,
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