The echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of SydneyCarton. Some half-dozen times a year，at most，he claimed his privilege of coming in uninvited，and would sit among them through the evening，as he had once done often.He never came there heated with wine.And one other thing regarding him was whispered in the echoes，which has been whispered by all true echoes for ages and ages.
No man ever really loved a woman，lost her，and knew her with a blameless though an unchanged mind，when she was a wife and a mother，but her children had a strange sympathy with him—an instinctive delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in such a case，no echoes tell；but it is so，and it was so here.Carton was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms，and he kept his place with her as she grew.The little boy had spoken of him，almost at the last.'Poor Carton！Kiss him for me！'
Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law，like some great engine forcing itself through turbid water，and dragged his useful friend in his wake，like a boat towed astern.As the boat so favoured is usually in a rough plight，and mostly under water，so，Sydney had a swamped life of it.But，easy and strong custom，unhappily so much easier and stronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace，made it the life he was to lead；and he no more thought of emerging from his state of lion's jackal，than any real jackal may be supposed to think of rising to be a lion.Stryver was rich；had married a florid widow with property and three boys，who had nothing particularly shining about them but the straight hair of their dumpling heads.
These three young gentlemen，Mr. Stryver，exuding patronage of the most offensive quality from every pore，had walked beforehim like three sheep to the quiet corner in Soho，and had offered as pupils to Lucie's husband：delicately saying，'Halloa！here are three lumps of bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic，Darnay！'The polite rejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr.Stryver with indignation，which he afterwards turned to account in the training of the young gentlemen，by directing them to beware of the pride of Beggars，like that tutor-fellow.He was also in the habit of declaiming to Mrs.Stryver，over his full-bodied wine，on the arts Mrs.Darnay had once put in practice to'catch'him，and on the diamond-cut-diamond arts in himself，madam，which had rendered him'not to be caught.'Some of his King's Bench familiars，who were occasionally parties to the full-bodied wine，and the lie，excused him for the latter by saying that he had told it so often，that he believed it himself—which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an originally bad offence，as to justify any such offender's being carried off to some suitably retired spot，and there hanged out of the way.
These were among the echoes to which Lucie，sometimes pensive，sometimes amused and laughing，listened in the echoing corner，until her little daughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her child's tread came，and those of her own dear father's，always active and self-possessed，and those of her dear husband's，need not be told.Nor，how the lightest echo of their united home，directed by herself with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any waste，was music to her.Nor，how there were echoes all about her，sweet in her ears，of the many times her father had told her that he found her more devoted to him married（if that could be）than single，andof the many times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed to divide her love for him or her help to him，and asked her'What is the magic secret，my darling，of your being everything to all of us，as if there were only one of us，yet never seeming to be hurried，or to have too much to do？'
But，there were other echoes，from a distance，that rumbled menacingly in the corner all through this space of time. And it was now，about little Lucie's sixth birthday，that they began to have an awful sound，as of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.
On a night in mid-July，one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine，Mr. Lorry came in late，from Tellson's，and sat himself down by Lucie and her husband in the dark window.It was a hot，wild night，and they were all three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the lightning from the same place.
'I began to think，'said Mr. Lorry，pushing his brown wig back，'that I should have to pass the night at Tellson's.We have been so full of business all day，that we have not known what to do first，or which way to turn.There is such an uneasiness in Paris，that we have actually a run of confidence upon us！Our customers over there，seem not to be able to confide their property to us fast enough.There is positively a mania among some of them for sending it to England.'
'That has a bad look，'said Darnay.
'A bad look，you say，my dear Darnay？Yes，but we don't know what reason there is in it. People are so unreasonable！Some of us at Tellson's are getting old，and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course without due occasion.'
'Still，'said Darnay，'you know how gloomy and threateningthe sky is.'
'I know that，to be sure，'assented Mr. Lorry，trying to persuade himself that his sweet temper was soured，and that he grumbled，'but I am determined to be peevish after my long day's botheration.Where is Manette？'
'Here he is，'said the Doctor，entering the dark room at the moment.
'I am quite glad you are at home；for these hurries and forebodings by which I have been surrounded all day long，have made me nervous without reason. You are not going out，I hope？'
'No；I am going to play backgammon with you，if you like，'said the Doctor.
'I don't think I do like，if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be pitted against you tonight.Is the teaboard still there，Lucie？I can't see.'
'Of course，it has been kept for you.'
