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spectral face upon her warm young breast, and love it back to life
and hope-so 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

“Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have
unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once
knew so well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!” She had
moved from the wall of the garret. very near to the bench on which
he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the
figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as he
stooped over his labour.

Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a
spirit, beside him, and he bent over his work.

It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the
instrument in his hand, for his shoemaker’s knife. It lay on that
side of him which was not the side on which she stood. He had
taken it up, and was stooping to work again, when his eyes caught
the skirt of her dress. He raised them, and saw her face. The two
spectators started forward, but she stayed them with a motion of
her hand. She had no fear of his striking at her with the knife,
though they had.

He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips
began to form some words, though no sound proceeded from
them. By degrees, in the pauses of his quick and laboured
breathing, he was heard to say: “What is this?” With the tears
streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her lips, and
kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she laid
his ruined head there.

“You are not the gaoler’s daughter?” She sighed “No.” “Who are
you?” Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the
bench beside him.

He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange thrill
struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he
laid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.

Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly
pushed aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by
little and little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the
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