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victim of this disorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation,
“a fit of the jerks.”

The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young.
The resemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such
times, and as they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and
he resting his arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to
trace the likeness.

He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual

“Pray, Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the
plane-tree-and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand,
which happened to be the old buildings of London-“have you seen
much of the Tower?” “Lucie and I have been there; but only
casually. We have seen enough of it, to know that it teems with
interest; little more.” “I have been there, as you remember,” said
Darnay, with a smile, though reddening a little angrily, “in another
character, and not in a character that gives facilities for seeing
much of it. They told me a curious thing when I was there.” “What
was that?” Lucie asked.

“In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old
dungeon, which had been, for many years, built up and forgotten.
Every stone of its inner wall was covered by inscriptions which
had been carved by prisoners-dates, names, complaints, and
prayers. Upon a corner stone in an angle of the wall, one prisoner,
who seemed to have gone to execution, had cut as his last work,
three letters. They were done with some very poor instrument, and
hurriedly, with an unsteady hand. At first, they were read as D. I.
C.; but, on being more carefully examined, the last letter was
found to be G. There was no record or legend of any prisoner with
those initials, and many fruitless guesses were made what the
name could have been. At length, it was suggested that the letters
were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The floor was
examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the earth
beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found
the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern
case or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be
read, but he had written something, and hidden it away to keep it
from the gaoler.” “My father,” exclaimed Lucie, “you are ill!” He
had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner
and his look quite terrified them all.

“No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and
they made me start. We had better go in.” He recovered himself
almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large drops, and he
showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he said not
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