Waste forces within him，and a desert all around，this man stood still on his way across a silent terrace，and saw for a moment，lying in the wilderness before him，a mirage of honourable ambition，self-denial，and perseverance. In the fair city of this vision，there were airy galleries from which the loves and graces looked upon him，gardens in which the fruits of life hung ripening，waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight.A moment，and it was gone.Climbing to a high chamber，in a well of houses，he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed，and its pillow was wet with wasted tears.
Sadly，sadly，the sun rose；it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and good emotions，incapable of their directed exercise，incapable of his own help and his own happiness，sensible of the blight on him，and resigning himself to let it eat him away.
XII.HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE
T he quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a street-corner not far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason，and carried it，as to the public interest and memory，far out to sea，Mr.Jarvis Lorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived，on his way to dine with the Doctor.After several relapses into the business-absorption，Mr.Lorry had become the Doctor's friend，and the quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.
On this certain fine Sunday，Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho，early in the afternoon，for three reasons of habit.Firstly，because，on fine Sundays，he often walked out，before dinner，with the Doctor and Lucie；secondly，because，on unfavourable Sundays，he was accustomed to be with them as the family friend，talking，reading，looking out of window，and generally getting through the day；thirdly，because he happened to have his own little shrewd doubts to solve，and knew how the ways of the Doctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving them.
A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived，was not to be found in London. There was no way through it，and the front windows of the Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that had a congenial air of retirement on it.There were few buildings then，north of the Oxford-road，and forest-trees flourished，and wild flowers grew，and the hawthornblossomed，in the now vanished fields.As a consequence，country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom，instead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a settlement；and there was many a good south wall，not far off，on which the peaches ripened in their season.
The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part of the day；but，when the streets grew hot，the corner was in shadow，though not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a glare of brightness. It was a cool spot，staid but cheerful，a wonderful place for echoes，and a very harbour from the raging streets.
There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage，and there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large still house，where several callings purported to be pursued by day，but whereof little was audible any day，and which was shunned by all of them at night.In a building at the back，attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree rustled its green leaves，church-organs claimed to be made，and silver to be chased，and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall—as if he had beaten himself precious，and menaced a similar conversion of all visitors.Very little of these trades，or of a lonely lodger rumoured to live upstairs，or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have a counting-house below，was ever heard or seen.Occasionally，a stray workman putting his coat on，traversed the hall，or a stranger peered about there，or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard，or a thump from the golden giant.These，however，were only the exceptions required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind the house，and the echoes in thecorner before it，had their own way from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.
Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation，and its revival in the floating whispers of his story，brought him. His scientific knowledge and his vigilance and skill in conducting ingenious experiments，brought him otherwise into moderate request，and he earned as much as he wanted.
These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge，thoughts，and notice，when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner，on the fine Sunday afternoon.
'Doctor Manette at home？'
Expected home.
'Miss Lucie at home？'
Expected home.
'Miss Pross at home？'
Possibly at home，but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to anticipate intentions of Miss Pross，as to admission or denial of the fact.
'As I am at home myself，'said Mr. Lorry，'I'll go upstairs.'
Although the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her birth，she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to make much of little means，which is one of its most useful and most agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was，it was set off by so many little adornments，of no value，but for their taste and fancy，that its effect was delightful.The disposition of everything in the rooms，from the largest object to the least；the arrangement of colours，the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles，by delicate hands，clear eyes，and good sense；were at once so pleasant in themselves，and soexpressive of their originator，that，as Mr.Lorry stood looking about him，the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him，with something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this time，whether he approved？
