where she had stood hundreds of times. A little woodsawyer,

having closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shopdoor.

“Good night, citizen,” said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by;

for the man eyed him inquisitively.

“Good night, citizen.”

“How goes the Republic?”

“You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three today. We shall

mount to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain

sometimes, of being exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that

Samson. Such a barber!”

“Do you often go to see him” “Shave? Always. Every day.

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What a barber! You have seen him at work?”

“Never.”

“Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to

yourself, citizen; he shaved the sixty-three today, in less than two

pipes. Less than two pipes. Word of honour!”

As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking to

explain how he timed the execution, Carton was so sensible of a

rising desire to strike the life out of him, that he turned away.

“But you are not English,” said the wood-sawyer, “though you

wear English dress?”

“Yes,” said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his

shoulder.