“A-a-a-business, business!” he urged, with a moisture that was not of business
shining on his cheek. “Come in, come in!”
“A-a-a-business, business!” he said, with a tear on his cheek that had nothing
to do with business. “Come in!”
“I am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering.
“I’m afraid of it,” she answered, trembling.
“Of it? What?”
“Of ‘it’? Of what?”
“I mean of him. Of my father.”
“I mean of him. Of my father.”
Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of their
conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his shoulder, lifted
her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat her down just within the
door, and held her, clinging to him.
Concerned by the state she was in and by the gesturing of Monsieur Defarge,
Mr. Lorry pulled her arm around his neck, lifted her slightly, and rushed her
into the room. He sat her down just inside the door and held her as she clung to
Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside, took out
the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did, methodically, and with
as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he could make. Finally, he walked
across the room with a measured tread to where the window was. He stopped there,
and faced round.
Defarge took out the key, closed the door, and locked it from the inside. Then
he took the key and held it in his hand. He did all of this methodically, making
as much noise as he could. Finally he crossed the room to the window, where he
stopped and turned around.
The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim and
dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the roof, with a
little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from the street: unglazed,
and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any other door of French
construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this door was fast closed, and
the other was opened but a very little way. Such a scanty portion of light was
admitted through these means, that it was difficult, on first coming in, to see
anything; and long habit alone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability
to do any work requiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was
being done in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face
towards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at him, a
white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making
The attic had been built to be a storage room for firewood and other things.
It was dim and dark. The window was actually a door in the roof, with a small
pulley over it for lifting things from the street. There were no windowpanes,
and it had two pieces that met in the middle to close it, like any other French
door. To keep out the cold, one half of the door was closed tight, and the other
was opened very slightly. Such a small amount of light came through that it was
hard to see anything when one first entered the room. It would have taken a long
time to adjust to the darkness enough to be able to do any kind of detailed work
there. Yet, that kind of work was being done in the attic. With his back to the
door and his face toward the window where Monsieur Defarge stood looking at him,
a white-haired man sat on a short bench, bent over and very busy, making shoes.