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means of writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time
as the prison lamps should be extinguished.

He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known
nothing of her fatherís imprisonment, until he had heard of it from
herself, and that he had been as ignorant as she of his fatherís and
uncleís responsibility for that misery, until the paper had been
read. He had already explained to her that his concealment from
herself of the name he had relinquished, was the one condition-
fully intelligible now-that her father had attached to their
betrothal, and was the one promise he had still exacted on the
morning of their marriage. He entreated her, for her fatherís sake,
never to seek to know whether her father had become oblivious of
the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled to him (for the
moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on that old
Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had
preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt
that he had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had
found no mention of it among the relics of prisoners which the
populace had discovered there, and which had been described to
all the world. He besought her-though he added that he knew it
was needless-to console her father, by impressing him through
every tender means she could think of, with the truth that he had
done nothing for which he could justly reproach himself, but had
uniformly forgotten himself for their joint sakes. Next to her
preservation of his own last grateful love and blessing, and her
overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their dear child, he
adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her father.
To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her
father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care.
And he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him
from any despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he
foresaw he might be tending.

To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly
affairs. That done, with many added sentences of grateful
friendship and warm attachment, all was done. He never thought
of Carton. His mind was so full of the others, that he never once
thought of him.

He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out.
When he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with
this world.

But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining

Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had
nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light
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