“John.”

“John Barsad,” repeated madame, after murmuring it once to

herself. “Good. His appearance; is it known?”

“Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;

complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark;

face thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a

peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,

sinister.”

“Eh, my faith. It is a portrait!” said madame, laughing. “He

shall be registered tomorrow.”

They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was

midnight), and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post

at her desk, counting the small moneys that had been taken

during her absence, examined the stock, went through the entries

in the book, made other entries of her own, checked the servingman

in every possible way, and finally dismissed him to bed. Then

she turned out the contents of the bowl of money for the second

time, and began knotting them up in her handkerchief, in a chain

of separate knots, for safe keeping through the night. All this

while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked up and down,

complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which condition,

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he walked up

and down through life.

The night was hot, an