'Good day!' said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white-haired man bent low over a shoe.

The man raised his head for a moment, and answered im a very faint voice, 'Good day!'

'You are still hard at work, I see?'

After a long silence, the man lifted his head for another moment, and replied, 'Yes... I am working.' The faintness of his voice was not just the faintness of physical weakness. It was also the faintness of a man who had been alone and had not spoken to anyone in along, long time. It was like the weak echo of a sound made long, long ago. It was like a once beautiful colour faded away into a light stain that could hardly be seen. It was like the voice of a tired traveller who has lost his way in the wilderness.

The white-haired man continued to work silently for a few minutes. Then he looked up again with his sorrowful, tired eyes in a dull, mechanical way, not with any interest or curiosity.

'I want,' said Defarge, looking at the shoemaker,'to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?'

The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with vacant air of listening at the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the other side of him; then, upward at the speaker.

'What did you say?'

'You can bear a little more light?'

'I must bear it, if you let in'.

Defarge opened the half-door a little further. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and showed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his labour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very long, a hollow face, and very bright eyes. His yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body to be withered and worn. He was so weak and frail that when he put up a hand between his eyes and the light, even the bones of his hand seemed transparent.

'Are you going to finish that pair of shoes today?' asked Defarge, as he signalled to Mr Lorry to come forward.

'What did you say?'

'Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes today?'

'I suppose so. I don't know.'

But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.

Mr Lorry came silently forward, leaving Lucie next to the door of the little room. 'You have a visitor, you see,' said  Monsieur Defarge.

'What did you say?'

'Here is a visitor,' repeated Monsieur Defarge.

The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his work.

'Come!' said Defarge. 'Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.'

Mr Lorry took it in his hand.

'Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name.'

There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied, 'I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?'

'I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's information?'

'It is a lady's shoe. It is a young lady's walking-shoe.' said the man.

'And the maker's name?' said Defarge.

Now that he had no work to hold, the man laid the knuckles of the right hand in the hollow of his left hand, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin.

'Did you ask me for my name?'

'Assuredly I did.'

'One hundred and five, North Tower.'

'Is that all?'

'One hundred and five, North Tower.'

With a deep sigh, he bent to work again, until the silence was again broken.

'You are not a shoemaker by trade?' said Mr Lorry, looking straight at him.

The tired, sorrowful eyes turned to Mr Lorry. 'I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade, I...I learnt it here. I taught myself. I asked permission to learn... to do something...'

The man's voice faded away. He sat quietly gazing at the floor. Then slowly, as if walking from a sleep, he looked up again and continued speaking in a low voice.

'I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after a long while, and I have made shoe ever since.'

Then he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him. 'Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?' asked Mr Lorry.

The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the questioner.

'Monsieur Mannete,' Mr Lorry continued, 'Do you remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your mind, Monsieur Mannete?'

As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr Lorry and at Defarge, some long forgotten memories seemed to gradually force themselves through the black mist that had fallen on him. But they were soon clouded over and then they were gone. A gloomy darkness fell on him again. With a deep long sigh, he took the shoe up, and resumed his work.

Lucie moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on which he sat. Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a bright spirit, beside him, and he bent over his work. Then, as he reached down to pick up an awl, his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He raised them, and saw her face.

He stared at her with a startled 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 whispered, 'What is this?...Who are you?'

Too overcome with emotion to be able to speak, she sat down on the bench beside him. He laid the awl 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 little by little, he took it up and looked at it.

'What is your name, my gentle angel?'

Lucie fell upon her knees before him and put her hands in his.

'O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was, and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may tell you, here and now, is, that your agony is over, and that I have come here to take you form it, and that we go to England to be at peace and at rest. I pray to you to bless me. O my dear, my dear Father!'

His cold white head mingled with her radiant yellow hair, which warmed and lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.

Charles Dickens (1812-1870) was a popular British author who is widely read even today. At a young age Dickens was forced to work at a boost-blackening factory. It led to his novels Oliver Twist and David Copperfield where he showed the miserables condition of the children in the society of his times. Other famous novels by Dickens include A Tale of of Two Cities and Great Expectations. 

monsieur : form of address used of or to a French-speaking man

faint : soft

wilderness : a place where no one lives

raggedly : shabbily

withered : wasted away

frail : weak

fixedly : for a long time without changing

garret : a room at the top of the house, usually used for storing things

awl : a small tool that is used for making holes in leather

by degrees : gradually

laboured : with great effort and difficulty

overcome : moved, affected

mingled : mixed

radiant : shining brightly