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otherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked unnaturally
so. His yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his
body to be withered and worn.

He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose stockings, and all his
poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion from direct light
and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of parchment-
yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.

He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very
bones of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant
gaze, pausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before
him, without first looking down on this side of himself, then on
that, as if he had lost the habit of associating place with sound; he
never spoke, without first wandering in this manner, and
forgetting to speak.

“Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?” asked Defarge,
motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.

“What did you say?” “Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-
day?” “I can’t say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don’t know.” But,
the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.
Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door.
When he had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the
shoemaker looked up.

He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the unsteady
fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at it (his
lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then the
hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe.
The look and the action had occupied but an instant.

“You have a visitor, you see,” said Monsieur Defarge.
“What did you say?” “Here is a visitor.” The shoemaker looked up
as before, but without removing a hand from his work.

“Come!” said Defarge. “Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made
shoe when he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at.
Take it, monsieur.” Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.

Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker’s name.”
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
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