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If Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in

the house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a

whole year, and had always been the same moody and morose lounger

there. When he cared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of

caring for nothing, which overshadowed him with such a fatal

darkness, was very rarely pierced by the light within him.

And yet he did care something for the streets that environed that

house, and for the senseless stones that made their pavements.

Many a night he vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine

had brought no transitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak

revealed his solitary figure lingering there, and still lingering

there when the first beams of the sun brought into strong relief,

removed beauties of architecture in spires of churches and lofty

buildings, as perhaps the quiet time brought some sense of better

things, else forgotten and unattainable, into his mind. Of late,

the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known him more scantily

than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon it no longer

than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that

neighbourhood.