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“On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven
hundred and seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel
between London and Dover by the mail?” “It did.” “Were there
any other passengers in the mail?” “Two.” “Did they alight on the
road in the course of the night?” “They did.” “Mr. Lorry, look
upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?” “I cannot
undertake to say that he was.” “Does he resemble either of these
two passengers?” “Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so
dark, and we were all so reserved, that I cannot undertake to say
even that.” “Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing
him wrapped up as those two passengers were, is there anything in
his bulk and stature to render it unlikely that he was one of them?”
“No.” “You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of
them?” “No.”

“So at least you say he may have been one of them?” “Yes. Except
that I remember them both to have been-like myself -timorous of
highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous air.” “Did you
ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?” “I certainly have
seen that.” “Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have
you seen him, to your certain knowledge, before?” “I have.”
“When?” “I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and,
at Calais, the prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I
returned, and made the voyage with me.” “At what hour did he
come on board?” “At a little after midnight.” “In the dead of the
night. Was he the only passenger who came on board at that
untimely hour?” “He happened to be the only one.” “Never mind
about ‘happening,’ Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who
came on board in the dead of the night?”

“He was.” “Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any
companion?” “With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They
are here.” “They are here. Had you any conversation with the
prisoner?” “Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage
long and rough, and I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”
“Miss Manette!” The young lady, to whom all eyes had been
turned before, and were now turned again, stood up where she
had sat. Her father rose with her, and kept her hand drawn
through his arm.

“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.” To be confronted with
such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was far more trying
to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd. Standing,
as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all the
staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him
to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs
before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his
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