Page 378 of 896

There had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of

Monsieur Defarge. As early as six o'clock in the morning, sallow

faces peeping through its barred windows had descried other faces

within, bending over measures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a

very thin wine at the best of times, but it would seem to have

been an unusually thin wine that he sold at this time. A sour

wine, moreover, or a souring, for its influence on the mood of

those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No vivacious

Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur

Defarge: but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay

hidden in the dregs of it.