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There was the usual stoppage at the barrier guardhouse, and the
usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual examination and
inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two of the
soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate
with, and affectionately embraced.

When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky
wings, and they, having finally alighted near the Saint’s
boundaries, were picking their way on foot through the black mud
and offal of his streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:
“Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?”
“Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy
commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all
that he can say, but he knows of one.” “Eh well!” said Madame
Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool business air. “It is
necessary to register him. How do they call that man?” “He is
English.” “So much the better. His name?” “Barsad,” said Defarge,
making it French by pronunciation. But, he had been so careful to
get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect correctness.
“Barsad,” repeated madame. “Good. Christian name?” “John.”
“John Barsad,” repeated madame, after murmuring it once to
herself. “Good.

His appearance; is it known?” “Age, about forty years; height,
about five feet nine; black hair; complexion dark; generally, rather
handsome visage; eyes dark, face thin, long, and sallow; nose
aquiline, but not straight, having a peculiar inclination towards the
left cheek; expression, therefore, sinister.” “Eh my faith. It is a
portrait!” said madame, laughing. “He shall be registered to-

They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was
midnight), and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post
at her desk, counted the small moneys that had been taken during
her absence examined the stock, went through the entries in the
book, made other entries of her own, checked the serving man in
every possible way, and finally dismissed him to bed. Then she
turned out the contents of the bowl of money for the second time,
and began knotting them up in her handkerchief, in a chain of
separate knots, for safe keeping through the night. All this while,
Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked up and down,
complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which condition,
indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he walked up
and down through life.

The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so
foul a neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge’s
olfactory sense was by no means delicate, but the stock of wine
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