A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where

he read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who

drove a contraband trade in European languages, instead of

conveying Greek and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of

his time he passed in London.

Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to

these days when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of

a man has invariably gone one wayCharles Darnay’s waythe

way of the love of a woman.

He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He

had never heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her

compassionate voice; he had never seen a face so tenderly

beautiful, as hers when it was confronted with his own on the edge

of the grave that had been dug for him. But, he had not yet spoken

to her on the subject; the assassination at the deserted chateau far

away beyond the heaving water, and the long, long, dusty roads

the solid stone chateau which had itself become the mere mist of a

dreamhad been done a year, and he had never yet, by so much

as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.

That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again

a summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college

occupation, he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on

seeking an opportunity of