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

There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoe-maker 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. It is in the present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.' He glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.

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

Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and so on in regular changes, without a moment's intermission. The task of recalling him from the vacancy into which he always sank when he had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a fast-dying man.

`One Hundred and Five, North Tower.'