misery: and the sound of her voice, the light of her face, the touch

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

of her hand, had a strong beneficial influence with him almost

always. Not absolutely always, for she could recall some occasions

on which her power had failed; but they were few and slight, and

she believed them over.

Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and

had turned to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver,

a man of little more than thirty, but looking twenty years older

than he was, stout, loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of

delicacy, had a pushing way of shouldering himself (morally and

physically) into companies and conversations, that argued well for

his shouldering his way up in life.

He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself

at his late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr.

Lorry clean out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off

with honour, Mr. Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly

infamous; but not the less likely to succeed on that account.”

“You have laid me under an obligation to you for lifein two

senses,” said his late client, taking his hand.

“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as

good as another man’s, I believe.”

It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,”