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looked down, with an admiring pity, on the flowing golden hair;
as if he pictured to himself that it might have been already tinged
with grey.

“You know that your parents had no great possession, and that
what they had was secured to your mother and to you. There has
been no new discovery, of money, or of any other property; but--”
He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the
forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which
was now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.
“But he has been-been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too
probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the
best. Still, alive.

Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant in Paris,
and we are go-ing there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to restore
him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.” A shiver ran through her
frame, and from it through his. She said, in a low, distinct, awe-
stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream, “I am going to
see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost-not him!” Mr. Lorry quietly
chafed the hands that held his arm. “There, there, there! See now,
see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now. You are
well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair
sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear
side.” She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, “I have
been free, I have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!”
“Only one thing more,” said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a
wholesome means of enforcing her attention: “he has been found
under another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It
would be worse than useless now to inquire which; worse than
useless to seek to know whether he has been for years overlooked,
or always designedly held prisoner. It would be worse than useless
now to make any inquiries, because it would be dangerous. Better
not to mention the subject, anywhere or in any way, and to remove
him-for a while at all eventsout of France. Even I, safe as an
Englishman, and even Tellson’s, important as they are to French
credit, avoid all naming of the matter. I carry about me, not a scrap
of writing openly referring to it. This is a secret service altogether.
My cre-dentials, entries, and memoranda, are all comprehended in
the one line, ‘Recalled to Life;’ which may mean anything. But
what is the matter! She doesn’t notice a word! Miss Manette!”
Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she
sat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed
upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved
or branded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm,
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