“Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for my

bench, and I can’t find it. What have they done with my work?

Time presses: I must finish those shoes.”

They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.

“Come, come!” said he, in a whimpering miserable way; “let me

get to work. Give me my work.”

Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon

the ground, like a distracted child.

“Don’t torture a poor forlorn wretch,” he implored them, with a

dreadful cry; “but give me my work! What is to become of us, if

those shoes are not done tonight?”

Lost, utterly lost!

It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to

restore him, thatas if by agreementthey each put a hand upon

his shoulder, and soothed him to sit down before the fire, with a

promise that he should have his work presently. He sank into the

chair, and brooded over the embers, and shed tears. As if all that

had happened since the garret time were a momentary fancy, or a

dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink into the exact figure that

Defarge had had in keeping.

Affected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this

spectacle of ruin, it was not a time to yield to such emotions. His

lonely daughter, bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to

them both too strongly. Again, as if by agreement, they looked at