, and coming up afresh, was the sign--Hunger.

The master of the wine-shop outside of which the cask had been broken
turned back to his shop when the struggle for the wine was ended.
Monsieur Defarge was a dark, bull-necked man, good-humoured-looking on
the whole, but implacable-looking, too. Three men who had been drinking
at the counter paid for their wine, and left. An elderly gentleman, who
had been sitting in a corner with a young lady, advanced, introduced
himself as Mr. Jarvis Lorry, of Tellson's Bank, London, and begged the
favour of a word.

The conference was very short, but very decided. It had not lasted a
minute, when Monsieur Defarge nodded and went out, followed by Mr. Lorry
and the young lady.

He led them through a stinking little black courtyard, and up a
staircase to a dim garret, where a white-haired man sat on a low bench,
stooping and very busy, making shoes.

"You are still hard at work, I see," said Monsieur Defarge.

A pair of haggard eyes looked at the questioner, and a very faint voice
replied, "Yes, I am working."

"Here is a visitor. Show him that shoe and tell him the maker's name."

There was a long pause, and the shoemaker asked, "What did you say?"

Defarge repeated his words.

"It is a lady's shoe," answered the shoemaker.

"And the maker's name?"

"One Hundred and Five, North Tower."

"Dr. Manette," said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly at him, "do you
remember nothing of me? Do you remember nothing of Defarge--your old
servant?"

As the Bastille captive of many years gazed at them, marks of
intelligence forced themselves through the mist that had fallen on him.
They were fainter; they were gone, but they had been there. The young
lady moved forward, with tears streaming from her eyes, and kissed him.
He took up her golden hair, and looked at it; then drew from his breast
a folded rag, and opened it carefully. It contained a little quantity of
hair. He took the girl's hair into his hand again.

"It is the same! How can it be? She had a fear of my going that night.
_Was it you?_" He turned upon her with frightful suddenness. But his
vigour swiftly died out, and he gloomily shook his head. "No, no, no! It
can't be!"

She fell on her knees and clasped his neck.

"If you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that was once sweet
music to your ears, weep for it--weep for it! Thank God!" she cried. "I
feel his sacred tears upon my face! Leave us here," she said. And, a