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作者: Charles Dickens

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With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and
action, that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these
changes upon him. The prisoner was like a young child in his
hands.
"Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished,
it never can be done, it has been attempted, and has always
failed. I implore you not to add your death to the bitterness of
mine."
"Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that,
refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your
hand steady enough to write?"
"It was when you came in."
"Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend,
quick!"
Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the
table. Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close
beside him.
"Write exactly as I speak."
"To whom do I address it?"
"To no one." Carton still had his hand in his breast.
"Do I date it?"
"No."

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