But care, care, care! Let me think it out!”

Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object,

he took a turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced

the thought in his mind to its possible consequences. His first

impression was confirmed. “It is best,” he said, finally resolved,

“that these people should know there is such a man as I here.”

And he turned his face towards Saint Antoine.

Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a

wine-shop in the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one

who knew the city well, to find his house without asking any

question. Having ascertained its situation, Carton came out of

those closer streets again, and dined at a place of refreshment and

fell sound asleep after dinner. For the first time in many years, he

had no strong drink. Since last night he had taken nothing but a

little light thin wine, and last night he had dropped the brandy

slowly down on Mr. Lorry’s hearth like a man who had done with

it.

It was as late as seven o’clock when he awoke refreshed, and

went out into the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint

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Antoine, he stopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror,

and slightly altered the disordered arrangement of his loose