corner to corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy

looks.

Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the

wine-shop was not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who

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crossed the threshold looked for him, nobody asked for him,

nobody wondered to see only Madame Defarge in her seat,

presiding over the distribution of wine, with a bowl of battered

small coins before her, as much defaced and beaten out of their

original impress as the small coinage of humanity from whose

ragged pockets they had come.

A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were

perhaps observed by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as

they looked in at every place, high and low, from the king’s palace

to the criminal’s gaol. Games at cards languished, players at

dominoes musingly built towers with them, drinkers drew figures

on the table with spilt drops of wine, Madame Defarge herself

picked out the pattern on her sleeve with her toothpick, and saw

and heard something invisible and inaudible a long way off.

Thus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until midday.

It was high noontide, when two dusty men passed through his

streets and under his swinging lamps: of whom, one was Monsieur

Defarge: the other a mender of roads in a blue cap. All adust and

athirst, t