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have executed this little commission, I shall, perhaps, accept
Tellson’s proposal to retire and live at my ease.

Time enough, then, to think about growing old.” This dialogue had
taken place at Mr. Lorry’s usual desk, with Monseigneur swarming
within a yard or two of it, boastful of what he would do to avenge
himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too much the way
of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it was much
too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this
terrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under
the skies that had not been sown-as if nothing had ever been done,
or omitted to be done, that had led to it-as if observers of the
wretched millions in France, and of the misused and perverted
resources that should have made them prosperous, had not seen it
inevitably coming, years before, and had not in plain words
recorded what they saw. Such vapouring, combined with the
extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the restoration of a state of
things that had utterly exhausted itself, and worn out Heaven and
earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured without some
remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was
such vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of
blood in his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind,
which had already made Charles Darnay restless, and which still
kept him so.

Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King’s Bench Bar, far on his
way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme:
broaching to Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up
and exterminating them from the face of the earth, and doing
without them: and for accomplishing many similar objects akin in
their nature to the abolition of eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails
of the race.

Him, Darnay heard with a particular feeling of objection; and
Darnay stood divided between going away that he might hear no
more, and remaining to interpose his word, when the thing that
was to be, went on to shape itself out.

The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and
unopened letter before him, asked if he had yet discovered any
traces of the person to whom it was addressed? The House laid the
letter down so close to Darnay that he saw the direction-the more
quickly because it was his own right name. The address, turned
into English, ran: “Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the
Marquis St. Evremonde, of France. Confided to the cares of Messrs.
Tellson and Co., Bankers, London, England.” On the marriage
morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and express
request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should be-
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