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her golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.

"And you in brown!" she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry;
"couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening
her to death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold
hands. Do you call _that_ being a Banker?"

Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to
answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler
sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the
inn servants under the mysterious penalty of "letting them know"
something not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her
charge by a regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her
drooping head upon her shoulder.

"I hope she will do well now," said Mr. Lorry.

"No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!"

"I hope," said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and
humility, "that you accompany Miss Manette to France?"

"A likely thing, too!" replied the strong woman. "If it was ever
intended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose
Providence would have cast my lot in an island?"

This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew
to consider it.



V

The Wine-shop


A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street.
The accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had
tumbled out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones
just outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a
walnut-shell.

All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their
idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough,
irregular stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed,
one might have thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that
approached them, had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded,
each by its own jostling group or crowd, according to its size.
Some men kneeled down, made scoops of their two hands joined, and
sipped, or tried to help women, who bent over their shoulders, to
sip, before the wine had all run out between their fingers. Others,
men and women, dipped in the puddles with little mugs of mutilated
earthenware, or even with handkerchiefs from women's heads, which
were squeezed dry into infants' mouths; others made small mud-
embankments, to stem the wine as it ran; others, directed by
lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and there, to cut off
little streams of wine that started away in new directions; others
devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed pieces of the cask,
licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted fragments with
eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the wine, and not
only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up along with
it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street, if anybody
acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous presence.

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