the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled to him (for the
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
moment or, for good), by the story of the Tower, on that old
Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had
preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt
that he had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had
found no mention of it among the relics of prisoners which the
populace had discovered there, and which had been described to
all the world. He besought herthough he added that he knew it
was needlessto console her father, by impressing him through
every tender means she could think of , with the truth that he had
done nothing for which he could justly reproach himself, but had
uniformly forgotten himself for their joint sakes. Next to her
preservation of his own last grateful love and blessing, and her
overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their dear child, he
adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her father.
To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told
her father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care.
And he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him
from any despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he
foresaw he might be tending.
To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his
worldly affairs. That done, with many added sentences of grateful
friendship and warm attachment, all was done. He never thought
of Carton. His mind was so full of the others, that he never once
thought of him.
He had time to finish these letters before the lights were