Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker

replied: “I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?”

“I said, couldn’t you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur’s

information?”

“It is a lady’s shoe. It is a young lady’s walking-shoe. It is in the

present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my

hand.” He glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of

pride.

“And the maker’s name?” said Defarge.

Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the

right hand in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the

left hand in the hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across

his bearded chin, and so on in regular changes, without a

moment’s intermission. The task of recalling him from the vacancy

into which he always sank when he had spoken, was like recalling

some very weak person from a swoon, or endeavouring, in the

hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a fast-dying man.

“Did you ask me for my name?”

“Assuredly I did.”

“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”

“Is that all?”

“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”

With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to

work again, until the silence was again broken.

“You are not a shoemaker by trade?” said Mr. Lorry, looking

steadfastly at him