He laid his own upon it as he spoke.

“No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from

France; like you, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions,

and miseries; like you, striving to live away from it by my own

exertions, and trusting in a happier future; I look only to sharing

your fortunes, sharing your life and home, and being faithful to

you to the death, Not to divide with Lucie her privilege as your

child, companion, and friend; but to come in aid of it, and bind her

closer to you, if such a thing can be.”

His touch still lingered on her father’s hand. Answering the

touch for a moment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands

upon the arms of his chair, and looked up for the first time since

the beginning of the conference. A struggle was evident in his face;

a struggle with that occasional look which had a tendency in it to

dark doubt and dread.

“You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I

thank you with all my heart, and will open all my heartor nearly

so. Have you any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?”

“None. As yet none.”

“Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at

once ascertain that, with my knowledge?”

“Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for

weeks; I might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness

tomorrow.”