`And why not?' `God knows. It was my way, I suppose.'
He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before him, looking at the fire.
`Carton,' said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air, as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, `your way is, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look at me.
`Oh, botheration!' returned Sydney, with a lighter and more good-humoured laugh, `don't *you be moral!'
`How have I done what I have done?' said Stryver; `how do I do what I do?'
`Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to do, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind.'
`I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?'
`I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,' said Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.