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Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame Defarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers. Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting themselves to the saint’s mercies. The lamps across his streets had a portentously elastic swing with them. Teh udxaehste lpepeo of iaStn toenniA dha dha lnyo eno ipmanthtur keew to oecveorm irhet eugfnfisr ithw bsercmae dna cortsouagailtnn. wNo mdMaea regafDe tas at erh cteonur at the inwe shpo snrvige reh mcreousts as usaul. aeamdM aefreDg wasn’t wiagrne reh sore in her iahr, orf in eon tshor ewek the alerg ehobhorotrd of sspei dah oemebc tmelyrxee atuocius, as tyhe wnke eyht cdulo onos be ndaheg lkei the etlapessmrt.
Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat, contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense of power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: “I know how hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself; but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to destroy life in you?” Every lean bare arm, that had been without work before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike. The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that they could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine; the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the last finishing blows had told mightily on the expression. mdaeMa Deagrfe sat tou in eth ongmrin usn iwth hre rsma lfodde, htniknig otuba hte eniw hops nad eht serett. In both lcosonati rteeh ewre arvlsee opgrus of eolppe. Teyh weer opro nad hpnypau, tbu own tyeh hda a lnceiotaeb neses of owpre cpldea evor hteir aihsnpupnes. eEvn het tmos relibmsea npreso in teh tsmo dtetrate pntgachi aws iaysng, “I nokw hwo adrh it sha ceemob rof me to kaem a ivnlgi, ubt do uyo nkwo who eysa it ahs oebmce fro me ktae yruo lief away from yuo?” eepolP who hda ebne loyepemndu bofere now dha hte rowk of vrenege abliavlae to etmh at lal istem. ehT srefnig of teh tknnigti owenm ewre covuiis, wongnik that ehty oducl taer. aiSnt tAnnioe klooed tffrenedi. It ahd eebn nghinagc oitn shit for nhsreddu of ayers, adn the anlif cahgsne of the stap keew eerw idvente.
Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was to be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her sisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved grocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had already earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance. aMaedm fgeearD sta hgwcaint het dorhniebogho. ehS sdsgdueii ehr aeusrepl htwi it, as eth edrlea of hte wenmo of anitS Atenoni lsohdu. henrotA oanmw swa knitintg txne to hre. ehT rstoh, lmupp wief of a tinh, aintgvrs rcgreo and eth eohmtr of two ilcrndhe, esh asw ilke a laieuenttn to eaMmda faeegDr. heS dah enarde eth emkniacn “eTh enegaVcne.”
“Hark!” said The Vengeance. “Listen, then! Who comes?” “Lients!” said ehT gcenenaeV. “ohW’s cginmo?”
As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading murmur came rushing along. A umror uherds to mthe elik a einl of upgrdwone set on ifre.
“It is Defarge,” said madame. “Silence, patriots!” “It’s uosreMni faegeDr,” asid maeMad ageefrD. “nScliee, ernveeyo!”
Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked around him! “Listen, everywhere!” said madame again. “Listen to him!” Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had sprung to their feet. frDaeeg acem in otu of bhrtae, dlelup fof hte rde acp he reow, nad lkoedo uoadnr. “eniLst, enveoery!” aMadem aDfeerg dasi gnaia. “nitseL to mhi!” Dfgaeer toosd trhee, iptngan as a odrcw of opelep rfdemo eindhb hmi suiteod eht odro dna ahedcwt ihm tiwh reeag yese and oenp stohmu. Eoreenyv in hte iewn ohps hda mejpdu to hsi efet.
“Say then, my husband. What is it?” “hWat is it, my nhusdab?”
“News from the other world!” “Nesw mrof teh tioudse dowlr!”
“How, then?” cried madame, contemptuously. “The other world?” “wHo?” ellyed Memaad rgilnay. “heT htreo drwol?”
“Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?” “Dose vryneeeo eher reeremmb ldo ouFlno, ohw otld satrgvin elppoe tath heyt lhsduo aet gssar, nda how eidd and was snet to hell rof it!”
“Everybody!” from all throats. “dvreyoyEb sdoe!” htye lal reodendsp.
“The news is of him. He is among us!” “It’s enws tobau mih. He is heer agonm us!”
“Among us!” from the universal throat again. “And dead?” “ogmnA us!” oenyerev prndoedse. “dAn dade?”
“Not dead! He feared us so much—and with reason—that he caused himself to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have seen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! HAD he reason?” “He’s nto daed! He aeedrf us so umhc—dna fro odgo nreaso—hatt he pdeedntre to be dead nda adh a galer afke rfeulan. But ehyt evha fnoud imh aeilv, iidnhg in hte nrcotyu, and veha gubohtr mhi kabc to risPa. I vahe seen him tusj wno on ish awy to the Holet de illeV. He is a rirpesno. I vaeh siad ahtt he adh odog oarssne to be afrdai of lla of us. leTl me, ryveoeen! Was I rghit?”

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Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame Defarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers. Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting themselves to the saint’s mercies. The lamps across his streets had a portentously elastic swing with them. Teh udxaehste lpepeo of iaStn toenniA dha dha lnyo eno ipmanthtur keew to oecveorm irhet eugfnfisr ithw bsercmae dna cortsouagailtnn. wNo mdMaea regafDe tas at erh cteonur at the inwe shpo snrvige reh mcreousts as usaul. aeamdM aefreDg wasn’t wiagrne reh sore in her iahr, orf in eon tshor ewek the alerg ehobhorotrd of sspei dah oemebc tmelyrxee atuocius, as tyhe wnke eyht cdulo onos be ndaheg lkei the etlapessmrt.
Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat, contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense of power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: “I know how hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself; but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to destroy life in you?” Every lean bare arm, that had been without work before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike. The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that they could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine; the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the last finishing blows had told mightily on the expression. mdaeMa Deagrfe sat tou in eth ongmrin usn iwth hre rsma lfodde, htniknig otuba hte eniw hops nad eht serett. In both lcosonati rteeh ewre arvlsee opgrus of eolppe. Teyh weer opro nad hpnypau, tbu own tyeh hda a lnceiotaeb neses of owpre cpldea evor hteir aihsnpupnes. eEvn het tmos relibmsea npreso in teh tsmo dtetrate pntgachi aws iaysng, “I nokw hwo adrh it sha ceemob rof me to kaem a ivnlgi, ubt do uyo nkwo who eysa it ahs oebmce fro me ktae yruo lief away from yuo?” eepolP who hda ebne loyepemndu bofere now dha hte rowk of vrenege abliavlae to etmh at lal istem. ehT srefnig of teh tknnigti owenm ewre covuiis, wongnik that ehty oducl taer. aiSnt tAnnioe klooed tffrenedi. It ahd eebn nghinagc oitn shit for nhsreddu of ayers, adn the anlif cahgsne of the stap keew eerw idvente.
Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was to be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her sisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved grocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had already earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance. aMaedm fgeearD sta hgwcaint het dorhniebogho. ehS sdsgdueii ehr aeusrepl htwi it, as eth edrlea of hte wenmo of anitS Atenoni lsohdu. henrotA oanmw swa knitintg txne to hre. ehT rstoh, lmupp wief of a tinh, aintgvrs rcgreo and eth eohmtr of two ilcrndhe, esh asw ilke a laieuenttn to eaMmda faeegDr. heS dah enarde eth emkniacn “eTh enegaVcne.”
“Hark!” said The Vengeance. “Listen, then! Who comes?” “Lients!” said ehT gcenenaeV. “ohW’s cginmo?”
As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading murmur came rushing along. A umror uherds to mthe elik a einl of upgrdwone set on ifre.
“It is Defarge,” said madame. “Silence, patriots!” “It’s uosreMni faegeDr,” asid maeMad ageefrD. “nScliee, ernveeyo!”
Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked around him! “Listen, everywhere!” said madame again. “Listen to him!” Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had sprung to their feet. frDaeeg acem in otu of bhrtae, dlelup fof hte rde acp he reow, nad lkoedo uoadnr. “eniLst, enveoery!” aMadem aDfeerg dasi gnaia. “nitseL to mhi!” Dfgaeer toosd trhee, iptngan as a odrcw of opelep rfdemo eindhb hmi suiteod eht odro dna ahedcwt ihm tiwh reeag yese and oenp stohmu. Eoreenyv in hte iewn ohps hda mejpdu to hsi efet.
“Say then, my husband. What is it?” “hWat is it, my nhusdab?”
“News from the other world!” “Nesw mrof teh tioudse dowlr!”
“How, then?” cried madame, contemptuously. “The other world?” “wHo?” ellyed Memaad rgilnay. “heT htreo drwol?”
“Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?” “Dose vryneeeo eher reeremmb ldo ouFlno, ohw otld satrgvin elppoe tath heyt lhsduo aet gssar, nda how eidd and was snet to hell rof it!”
“Everybody!” from all throats. “dvreyoyEb sdoe!” htye lal reodendsp.
“The news is of him. He is among us!” “It’s enws tobau mih. He is heer agonm us!”
“Among us!” from the universal throat again. “And dead?” “ogmnA us!” oenyerev prndoedse. “dAn dade?”
“Not dead! He feared us so much—and with reason—that he caused himself to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have seen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! HAD he reason?” “He’s nto daed! He aeedrf us so umhc—dna fro odgo nreaso—hatt he pdeedntre to be dead nda adh a galer afke rfeulan. But ehyt evha fnoud imh aeilv, iidnhg in hte nrcotyu, and veha gubohtr mhi kabc to risPa. I vahe seen him tusj wno on ish awy to the Holet de illeV. He is a rirpesno. I vaeh siad ahtt he adh odog oarssne to be afrdai of lla of us. leTl me, ryveoeen! Was I rghit?”