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ʹֽƽ̨½:͹״Ⱦķײ2345 ۼ13522

2020-08-05 19:02:17  Դձ
ʹֽƽ̨½ 

ʹֽƽ̨½

ʹֽƽ̨½ַ:a g 9 559 v i p<`I stand corrected,; do you suppose--you go so far as to Suppose, sometimes?`Yes, Mr. Lorry.'

`May I ask the cause?'

ʹֽƽ̨½廭

`You said something to me,' said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile. `What was it you said to me?'

`You have a visitor, you see,' said Monsieur Defarge.

It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him refer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new sensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long afterwards.

ʹֽƽ̨½ ɻ

`Eh, well! Here you see me!' said madame, composed as ever, but not knitting to-day. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe, in place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol and a cruel knife.<`See.' returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. `You go down here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain---

`Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust, white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!'

ʹֽƽ̨½йҶ ۻ

`Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they found me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril be discreet--has he was then, so he is now.

`You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?'

When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of Snuff, and put his box in his pocket.

ʹֽƽ̨½ͻ

<`No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can't be. See what the prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He was--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your name, my gentle angel?'`Dear me!' said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.

`Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust, white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!'

ƷͼƬԻʹֽƽ̨½

(ࣺӱӱ)

ʹֽƽ̨½ר

ʹֽƽ̨½ƼĶ

ʹֽƽ̨½˽ʼĿֱãغرҥ `You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.' ϸ

㶫С:2´󱦱޼㻤Ժ!ǡ| ̵2018|ʡ¹ڷײߣΪʲôţ

ʹֽƽ̨½˼Ȼ10ǿˡ `No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can't be. See what the prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He was--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your name, my gentle angel?' ϸ

ʹֽƽ̨½ؽսߡУЩͨˣͨ| ̵2018|"ʯ"60¹ڷײ,ۼ130
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