“Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day. within the

Bastille, citizen.”

“I knew,” said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at

the bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up

at him; “I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been

confined in a cell known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower.

I knew it from himself. He knew himself by no other name than

One Hundred and Five, North Tower, when he made shoes under

my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve, when the place

shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to the cell, with a

fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a gaoler. I

examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a stone

has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. That is

that written paper. I have made it my business to examine some

specimens of the writing of Doctor Manette. This is the writing of

Doctor Manette. I confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor

Manette, to the hands of the President.”

“Let it be read.”

In the dead silence and stillnessthe prisoner under trial

looking lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look

with solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes

fixed on the reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the

prisoner, Defarge never taking his from his feastin