of hush-money, but is killed by the sudden falling of the house in which he is waiting for her.

His eyes, too close together, . . . were sharp rather than bright. . . . They had no depth or change: they glittered, and they opened and shut. So far, and waiving their use to himself, a clockmaker could have made a better pair. He had a hook nose, handsome after its kind, but too high between the eyes by probably just as much as his eyes were too near to one another. For the rest, he was large and tall in frame, had thin lips (where his thick mustache showed them at all), and a quantity of dry hair, of no definable color in its shaggy state, but shot with red. i, xi, xxix, xxx, xxxvii, xxxix, xlii, xliii, xlv, xlvi, liii, lvi, lviii, lix, lxiv, lxvi, lxvii, lxix.

Rugg, Miss Anastasia. Daughter of Mr. Rugg. She has little nankeen spots, like shirt-buttons, all over her face; and her yellow tresses are rather scrubby than luxuriant.

Miss Rugg was a lady of a little property, which she had acquired, together with much distinction in the neighborhood, by having her heart severely lacerated, and her feelings mangled, by a middle-aged baker [named Hawkins], resident in the vicinity, against whom she had, by the agency of Mr. Rugg, found it necessary to proceed at law to recover damages for a breach of promise of marriage. The baker having been, by the counsel for Miss Rugg, witheringly denounced on that occasion up to the full amount of twenty guineas, at the rate of about eighteenpence an epithet, and having been cast in corresponding damages, still suffered occasional prosecution from the youth of Pentonville; but Miss Rugg, environed by the majesty of the law, and having her damages invested in the public securities, was regarded with consideration. xxv, lxii, lxiv.

Rugg, Mr. A general agent, accountant, and collector of debts, who is Mr. Pancks's landlord. He has a round, white visage, as if all his blushes had been drawn out of him long ago,—and a ragged yellow head like a worn-out hearth-broom. xxv, xxxii, xxxv, xxvi, lxii, lxiv, lxx.

Sparkler, Mr. Edmund. Son of Mrs. Merdle by her first husband. He marries Fanny Dorrit, considering her to be “ with no nonsense about her."

a young lady

Mrs. Merdle's first husband had been a colonel, under whose auspices the bosom had entered into competition with the snows of North America, and had come off at little disadvantage in point of whiteness, and at none in point of coldness. The colonel's son was Mrs. Merdle's only child. He was of a chuckle-headed, high-shouldered make, with a general appearance of being not so

much a young man as a swelled. boy. He had given so few signs of reason, that a byword went among his companions, that his brain had been frozen up in a mighty frost which prevailed at St. John, New Brunswick, at the period of his birth there, and had never thawed from that hour. Another byword represented him as having in his infancy, through the negligence of a nurse, fallen out of a high window on his head, which had been heard, by responsible witnesses, to crack. It is probable that both these representations were of ex post facto origin; the young gentleman (whose expressive name was Sparkler) being monomaniacal in offering marriage to all manner of undesirable young ladies, and in remarking of every successive young lady to whom he tendered a matrimonial proposal, that she was "a doosed fine gal, well educated too, with no biggodd nonsense about her." xx, xxi, xxxiii, xxxix, xlii, xliii, xlviii, l-lii, liv, lx, lxix. Sparkler, Mrs. Edmund. See DORRIT, FANNY. Stiltstalking, Lord Lancaster. A gray old gentleman of dignified and sullen appearance, whom the Circumlocution Office has maintained for many years as a representative of the Britannic majesty abroad.

This noble refrigerator had iced several European courts in his time, and had done it with such complete success, that the very name of Englishman yet struck cold to the stomachs of foreigners who had the distinguished honor of remembering him at a distance of a quarter of a century. xxvi. Tattycoram. See BEADLE, HARRIET.

Tickit, Mrs. Mr. Meagles's cook and housekeeper. She makes Buchan's "Domestic Medicine" her constant vade-mecum, though she is believed never to have consulted it to the extent of a single word in her life. xvi, xxxiv, xlv, lxix.

Tinkler. Mr. William Dorrit's valet. xxxix, xli, li, lv.
Tip. See DORRIT, EDWARD.

Wade, Miss. A woman with a sullen and ungovernable temper, a self-tormentor, who fancies that wrongs and insults are heaped upon her on every side. Finding a kindred spirit in Tattycoram, the adopted child of Mr. Meagles, she entices the girl to leave that excellent couple, and live with her, and, when she has done so, makes and keeps her as miserable, suspicious, and tormenting as herself. But Tattycoram grows tired of such a life, and at length returns, repentant and grateful, to her old master and mistress.

One could hardly see the face, so still and scornful, set off by the arched dark eyebrows and the folds of dark hair, without wondering what its expression would be if a change came over it.

That it could soften or relent appeared next to impossible. That it could deepen into anger or any extreme of defiance, and that it must change in that direction, when it changed at all, would have been its peculiar impression upon most observers. It was dressed and trimmed into no ceremony of expression. Although not an open face, there was no pretence in it. I am self-contained and self-reliant; your opinion is nothing to me; I have no interest in you, care nothing for you, and see and hear you with indifference, - this it said plainly. It said so in the proud eyes, in the lifted nostril, in the handsome but compressed and even cruel mouth. Cover either two of those channels of expression, and the third would have said so still. Mask them all, and the mere turn of the head would have shown an unsubduable nature. ii, xvi, xxvii, xxviii, xlv, xlvi, lvi, lvii, lxix.

Wobbler, Mr. A functionary in the secretarial department of the Circumlocution Office. x.

A TALE OF TWO CITIES

OUTLINE

BOOK THE FIRST: RECALLED TO LIFE

Chapter It is likely enough that on the very day when this story I opens, there were sheltered in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, rude carts bespattered with rustic mire and roosted in by poultry which the farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of the Revolution. For it was the year 1775. It was a cold, wet night in November, II and the Dover mail had just surmounted a long, steep hill, when a horseman, galloping fast and furious, overtook it.

"So-ho!" roared the guard, as loud as he could, for it was a time when highwaymen were numerous and desperate, and he raised his blunderbuss. "Yo, there! Stand, or I shall fire!" The horseman pulled up suddenly, and cried out that he was Jerry Cruncher, and that he had a message from Tellson's Bank for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, one of the passengers. The message, read by the light of the coach lamp, was to the effect that Mr. Lorry would be joined at Dover by a young lady, who would accompany him to Paris; and the answer given verbally was this, "Recalled to life." "Recalled to life," muttered Jerry Cruncher, whose voice was uncommonly hoarse, and whose fingers seemed to be red with iron rust. "I say, Jerry. You'd be in a blazing bad way if recalling to life was to come into fashion, Jerry."

III

IV

At Dover, divested of his shawls and wrappers, Mr. Lorry, as he sat in the coffee-room sipping his wine before a sea-coal fire, proved to be a middle-aged, kindly man, neatly dressed in a brown suit, and wearing a small wig. Presently it was announced that Miss Manette, the young lady of Jerry Cruncher's message, was ready to receive him; and, entering her room, he saw a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden hair, a pair of blue eyes, and a forehead with a singular capacity of lifting and knitting itself into an expression that was not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright, fixed attention, though it included all four expressions. Miss Manette had been brought from Paris to London in Mr. Lorry's arms fifteen years

before; and ever since, her father, whom she supposed to be dead, had been a prisoner in the Bastille. Recently he had been released, and he was now in the hands of a former servant, until Mr. Lorry and his daughter should come for him. All this Mr. Lorry broke to the girl as gently as he could, but at the end she fainted. Thereupon appeared her companion, Miss Pross, always in a state of excitement, sometimes suppressed, and sometimes not.

"Why don't you go and fetch things?" cried Miss Pross to the inn-servants. "Smelling salts, cold water, vinegar, quick! And you in brown," she said indignantly, turning to Mr. Lorry, "do you call this being a banker?"

V

However, Miss Manette soon recovered, and she, Miss Pross, and Mr. Lorry crossed over to France; and there, in an upper room in the house of one Defarge, a wine-seller, they found Dr. Manette, a white-haired man, sitting on a low stool, very busy making shoes. That he was now free he could not realize; nor did he recognize those about him. But at last his daughter's voice, or the touch of her hand, or the sight of her rippling hair, seemed to awake in him some faint recollection; and then, recalled to life, Dr. Manette, with his shoemaker's tools, was brought to London.

I

BOOK THE SECOND: THE GOLDEN THREAD

Chapter Five years later, and the reader must remember that these were days of frequent hangings, of jail fevers, of drawing and quartering, of a populace to whom the execution of a fellow-being was a source of amusement,

II

III

a young man was on trial for his life at the Old Bailey. He was charged with carrying messages between the enemies of the king in London and in Paris; and among the witnesses summoned, most unwillingly, to give evidence against him were Dr. Manette, now restored to reason, and his daughter. They testified to having met Charles Darnay (so he was called, though his real name was Evrémonde) on the Dover packet upon a certain night in November; and two spies, John Barsad and Roger Cly, swore that at this time Darnay was carrying treasonable papers, which they produced in court. Altogether, the shadow of death seemed to be descending upon the prisoner, a handsome young man of five and twenty, who stood, pale and composed, in the dock, while the great throng of people in the court-room gazed hungrily at him, when a strange diversion was made in his favor. Within the bar, among the other barristers, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, sat one Sydney Carton, a man of about the prisoner's age, and astonishingly like him in face and figure, except that he had a rakish, careless air, which Darnay had not.