steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.

Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wineshop

thus, joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he

had directed his other company just before. It opened from a

stinking little black courtyard, and was the general public

entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited by a great number of

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the gloomy tile-paved

staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee to the child of

his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It was a gentle action,

but not at all gently done; a very remarkable transformation had

come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour in his

face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret,

angry, dangerous man.

“It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.”

Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they

began ascending the stairs.

“Is he alone?” the latter whispered.

“Alone! God help him, who should be with him!” said the other,

in the same low voice.

“Is he always alone, then?”

“Yes.”

“Of his own desire?”

“Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after

they found me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at

my peril be discreetas he was then, so he is now.”

“He is grea