In London, he had expected neither clarisonic plus to walk on pavements of
gold, nor to lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted
expectation, he would not have prospered. He had expected
labour, and he found it, and did it, and made the best of it. In this,
his prosperity consisted.
A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where
he read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who
drove a contraband trade in European languages, instead of
conveying Greek and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of
his time he passed in London.
Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to
these days when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of
a man has invariably gone one way—Charles Darnay’s way—the
way of the love of a woman.