Nevertheless，it was not easy，with the face of his beloved wife fresh before him，to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life was strong，and it was very，very hard，to loosen；by gradual efforts and degrees unclosed a little here，it clenched thetighter there；and when he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded，this was closed again.There was a hurry，too，in all his thoughts，a turbulent and heated working of his heart，that contended against resignation.If，for a moment，he did feel resigned，then his wife and child who had to live after him，seemed to protest and to make it a selfish thing.
But，all this was at first. Before long，the consideration that there was no disgrace in the fate he must meet，and that numbers went the same road wrongfully，and trod it firmly every day，sprang up to stimulate him.Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind enjoyable by the dear ones，depended on his quiet fortitude.So，by degrees he calmed into the better state，when he could raise his thoughts much higher and draw comfort down.
Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation，he had travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means of writing，and a light，he sat down to write until such time as the prison lamps should be extinguished.
He wrote a long letter to Lucie，showing her that he had known nothing of her father's imprisonment，until he had heard of it from herself，and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's responsibility for that misery，until the paper had been read. He had already explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name he had relinquished，was the one condition—fully intelligible now—that her father had attached to their betrothal，and was the one promise he had still exacted on the morning of their marriage.He entreated her，for her father's sake，never to seek to know whether her father had become oblivious of the existence of the paper，or had had it recalled to him（for themoment 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 her—though he added that he knew it was needless—to 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 put out. When he lay down on his straw bed，he thought he had done with this world.
But，it beckoned him back in his sleep，and showed itself in shining forms. Free and happy，back in the old house in Soho（though it had nothing in it like the real house），unaccountably released and light of heart，he was with Lucie again，and she told him it was all a dream，and he had never gone away.A pause of forgetfulness，and then he had even suffered，and had come back to her，dead and at peace，and yet there was no difference in him.Another pause of oblivion，and he awoke in the sombre morning，unconscious where he was or what had happened，until it flashed upon his mind，'this is the day of my death！'
Thus，had he come through the hours，to the day when the fifty-two heads were to fall. And now，while he was composed，and hoped that he could meet the end with quiet heroism，a new action began in his waking thoughts，which was very difficult to master.
He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How high it was from the ground，how many steps it had，where he would be stood，how he would be touched，whether the touching hands would be dyed red，which way his face would be turned，whether he would be the first，or might be the last：these and many similar questions，in no wise directed by his will，obtruded themselves over and over again，countless times.Neither were they connected with fear：he was conscious of no fear.Rather，they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what to do when the time came；a desire gigantically disproportionate to the few swift moments to which it referred；a wondering that was more like the wondering of some other spirit within his，than his own.
The hours went on as he walked to and fro，and the clocks struck the numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever，ten gone for ever，eleven gone for ever，twelve coming on to pass away.After a hard contest with the eccentric action ofthought which had last perplexed him，he had got the better of it.He walked up and down softly repeating their names to himself.The worst of the strife was over.He could walk up and down，free from distracting fancies，praying for himself and for them.
Twelve gone for ever.
