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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Charles Dickens

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“And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects—or in all respects—as he was then?”

 

“In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,” said a gentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, “I have the honour of giving you welcome to La Force, and of condoling with you on the calamity that has brought you among us. May it soon terminate happily! It would be an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here, to ask your name and condition?”

 

“Pretty witness,” he muttered, looking down into his glass. “I have had enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who’s your pretty witness?”

 

“Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I right, Jacques?”

 

“It is true,” said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. “More than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France. Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?”

 

“We heard her try to tell you what she’d done, and saw you take a paper from her hand, and watched you too, next day, to the pawnbroker’s shop,” said the first.

 

“Where is he?” screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner.

 

“Well, well,” said the beadle, evidently gratified with the compliment; “perhaps I may be. Perhaps I may be, Mrs. Mann.” He finished the gin-and-water, and added, “Oliver being now too old to remain here, the board have determined to have him back into the house. I have come out myself to take him there. So let me see him at once.”

 

“Yes; that’s all you women think of,” answered Sikes. “Fine young chaps! Well, they’re as good as dead, so it don’t much matter.”

 

“And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear,” interposed the Jew; “he can’t help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough.”

 

“Oh! I have a heart to be stabbed in or shot in, I have no doubt,” said Estella, “and of course if it ceased to beat I should cease to be. But you know what I mean. I have no softness there, no—sympathy—sentiment—nonsense.”

 

“My sister, sir,—Mrs. Joe Gargery,—wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir.”

 

We all began to suspect that Mr. Wopsle was not the man we had thought him, and that he was beginning to be found out.

 

After that, when we went in to supper, the place and the meal would have a more homely look than ever, and I would feel more ashamed of home than ever, in my own ungracious breast.

 

“I am,” said Mr. Jaggers, “and there’s an end of it. Get out of the way.”

 

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