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what we call the World was not so real with me, and my faults
were not confirmed in me.”

“I understand the feeling!” exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush.
“And you are the better for it?” “I hope so.” Carton terminated the
conversation here, by rising to help him on with his outer coat;
“But you,” said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, “you are
young.” “Yes,” said Carton. “I am not old, but my young way was
never the way to age. Enough of me.” “And of me, I am sure,” said
Mr. Lorry. “Are you going out?” “I’ll walk with you to her gate.
You know my vagabond and restless habits. If I should prowl
about the streets a long time, don’t be uneasy; I shall reappear in
the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow?” “Yes, unhappily.”
“I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a
place for me. Take my arm, sir.” Mr. Lorry did so, and they went
down-stairs and out in the streets. A few minutes brought them to
Mr. Lorry’s destination. Carton left him there; but lingered at a
little distance, and turned back to the gate again when it was shut,
and touched it. He had heard of her going to the prison every day.
“She came out here,” he said, looking about him, “turned this way,
must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in her steps.”

It was ten o’clock at night when he stood before the prison of La
Force, where she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-
sawyer, having closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-

“Good night, citizen,” said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by;
for, the man eyed him inquisitively.

“Good night, citizen.” “How goes the Republic?” “You mean the
Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount to a hundred
soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being
exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!”
“Do you often go to see him--” “Shave? Always. Every day. What
a barber! You have seen him at work?” “Never.” “Go and see him
when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself, citizen; he
shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less than two

Word of honour!” As the grinning little man held out the pipe he
was smoking, to explain how he timed the executioner, Carton was
so sensible of a rising desire to strike the life out of him, that he
turned away.

“But you are not English,” said the wood-sawyer, “though you
wear English dress?” “Yes,” said Carton, pausing again, and
answering over his shoulder.

“You speak like a Frenchman.” “I am an old student here.” “Aha, a
perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.” “Good night,
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