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Updated: May 25, 2025
His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the easterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added appellation of Jerry. The scene was Mr. Cruncher's private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley, Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. Mr.
"If he's found Guilty, you mean to say?" Jerry added, by way of proviso. "Oh! they'll find him guilty," said the other. "Don't you be afraid of that." Mr. Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr.
Halloa, father!" and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in again with an undutiful grin. Mr. Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher's saying grace with particular animosity. "Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?" His wife explained that she had merely "asked a blessing." "Don't do it!" said Mr.
Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept.
Cruncher's elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself. "Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a better employed brother than Mr.
Wot I say, for-bid it!" This was Mr. Cruncher's conclusion after a protracted but vain endeavour to find a better one. And still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer and nearer. "If we ever get back to our native land," said Miss Pross, "you may rely upon my telling Mrs.
Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to interchange the inquiry, "What do you think of this?" "Am I to wait in the court, sir?" he asked, as the result of that conference. "I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr. Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry's attention, and show him where you stand.
It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher's domestic economy, that, whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay. "What," said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his mark "what are you up to, Aggerawayter?" "I was only saying my prayers."
Jerry Cruncher's name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down below; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name himself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had employed to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual harmless ways of life were changed.
His unpopularity with the blackguard multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped to lay him in his coffin." Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher's head.
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