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and put on the cloak and other wrappings, that they gave him to
wear. He readily responded to his daughter’s drawing her arm
through his, and took-and kept-her hand in both his own.
They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the
lamp, Mr. Lorry closing the little procession. They had not
traversed many steps of the long main staircase when he stopped,
and stared at the roof and round at the walls.
“You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up
here?” “What did you say?” But, before she could repeat the
question, he murmured an answer as if she had repeated it.
“Remember? No, I don’t remember. It was so very long ago.”
That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought
from his prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard
him mutter, “One Hundred and Five, North Tower;” and when he
looked about him, it evidently was for the strong fortress-walls
which had long encompassed him. On their reaching the courtyard
he instinctively altered his tread, as being in expectation of a
drawbridge; and when there was no drawbridge, and he saw the
carriage waiting in the open street, he dropped his daughter’s hand
and clasped his head again.
No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of
the many windows; not even a chance passer-by was in the street.
An unnatural silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul
was to be seen, and that was Madame Defarge-who leaned against
the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed
him, when Mr. Lorry’s feet were arrested on the step by his asking,
miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes.
Madame Defarge immediately called to her husband that she
would get them, and went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through
the courtyard. She quickly brought them down and handed them
in;- and immediately afterwards leaned against the door-post,
knitting, and saw nothing.
Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “To the Barrier!” The
postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the
feeble overswinging lamps.
Under the over-swinging lamps-swinging ever brighter in the
better streets, and ever dimmer in the worse-and by lighted shops,
gay crowds, illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of
the city gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there.
“Your papers, travellers!” “See here then, Monsieur the Officer,”
said Defarge, getting down, and taking him gravely apart, “these
are the papers of monsieur inside, with the white head. They were
consigned to me, with him, at the--” He dropped his voice, there