cravat, and his coat-collar, and his wild hair. This done, he went

on direct to Defarge’s, and went in.

There happened to be no customers in the shop but Jacques

Three, of the restless fingers and the croaking voice. This man,

whom he had seen upon the Jury. stood drinking at the little

counter, in conversation with the Defarges, man and wife. The

Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like a regular member of

the establishment.

As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent

French) for a small measure of wine. Madame Defarge cast a

careless glance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and

then advanced to him herself, and asked him what it was he had

ordered.

He repeated what he had already said.

“English?” asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her

dark eyebrows.

After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French

word were slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former

strong foreign accent. “Yes, madame, yes. I am English!”

Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and,

as he took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it

puzzling out its meaning, he heard her say, “I swear to you, like

Evremonde!”

Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening.

“How?”

“Good evening.”

“Oh! Good evening, citizen,” filling hi