As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr.

Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively

intent intelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced

themselves through the black mist that had fallen on him. They

were overclouded again, they were fainter, they were gone; but

they had been there. And so exactly was the expression repeated

on the fair young face of her who had crept along the wall to a

point where she could see him, and where she now stood looking

at him, with hands which at first had been only raised in

frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and shut out

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the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him,

trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm

young breast, and love it back to life and hopeso exactly was the

expression repeated (though in stronger characters) on her fair

young face, that it looked as though it had passed like a moving

light, from him to her.

Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two,

less and less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought

the ground and looked about him in the old way. Finally with a

deep long sigh, he took the shoe up, and resumed his work.

“Have you recognised him, monsieur?” asked Defarge in a

whisper.