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"Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since

Shrewsbury," pursued Carton, "you have fallen into your rank, and

I have fallen into mine. Even when we were fellow-students in the

Student-Quarter of Paris, picking up French, and French law, and

other French crumbs that we didn't get much good of, you were

always somewhere, and I was always nowhere."

"And whose fault was that?"

"Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were

always driving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that

restless degree that I had no chance for my life but in rust and

repose. It's a gloomy thing, however, to talk about one's own

past, with the day breaking. Turn me in some other direction

before I go."

"Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness," said Stryver,

holding up his glass. "Are you turned in a pleasant direction?"

Apparently not, for he became gloomy again.