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“I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have heard
them say so.” “Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take
courage; several members of our society have been in secret, at
first, and it has lasted but a short time.” Then he added, raising his
voice, “I grieve to inform the society-in secret.” There was a
murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay crossed the room to a
grated door where the gaoler awaited him, and many voices-
among which, the soft and compassionate voices of women were
conspicuous-gave him good wishes and encouragement. He
turned at the grated door, to render the thanks of his heart; it
closed under the gaoler’s hand; and the apparitions vanished from
his sight for ever.

The wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. When
they had ascended forty steps (the prisoner of half an hour already
counted them), the gaoler opened a low black door, and they
passed into a solitary cell. It struck cold and damp, but was not

“Yours,” said the gaoler.
“Why am I confined alone?” “How do I know!” “I can buy pen,
ink, and paper?” “Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and
can ask then. At present, you may buy your food, and nothing
more.” There were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress.
As the gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, and of the
four walls, before going out, a wandering fancy wandered through
the mind of the prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him,
that this gaoler was so unwholesomely bloated, both in face and
person, as to look like a man who had been drowned and filled
with water. When the gaoler was gone, he thought in the same
wandering way, “Now am I left, as if I were dead.” Stopping then,
to look down at the mattress, he turned from it with a sick feeling,
and thought, “And here in these crawling creatures is the first
condition of the body after death.” “Five paces by four and a half,
five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half.” The
prisoner walked to and fro in his cell, counting its measurement,
and the roar of the city arose like muffled drums with a wild swell
of voices added to them. “He made shoes, he made shoes, he made
shoes.” The prisoner counted the measurement again, and paced
faster, to draw his mind with him from that latter repetition. “The
ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed.

There was one among them, the appearance of a lady dressed in
black, who was leaning in the embrasure of a window, and she
had a light shining upon her golden hair, and she looked like * * * *
Let us ride on again, for God’s sake, through the illuminated
villages with the people all awake! * * * * He made shoes, he made
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