The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling in

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

that same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the

crowd about it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be

examined.

“Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!”

The papers are handed out, and read.

“Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?”

This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering

old man pointed out.

“Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The

Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?”

Greatly too much for him.

“Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which

is she?”

This is she.

“Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it

not?”

It is.

“Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her

child. English. This is she?”

She and no other.

“Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good

Republican; something new in thy family; remember it? Sydney

Carton. Advocate. English. Which is he?”

He lies here in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed

out.

“Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?”

It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented

that he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a

friend who is under t