“You had better, Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to

propitiate, by tone and manner, “have the dear child here, and our

good Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and

knows no French.”

The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was

more than a match for any foreigner, was not to be shaken by

distress and danger, appeared with folded arms, and observed in

English to The Vengeance, whom her eyes first encountered,

“Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope you are pretty well!” She also

bestowed a British cough on Madame Defarge; but, neither of the

two took much heed of her.

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“Is that his child?” said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work

for the first time and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as

if it were the finger of Fate.

“Yes, Madame,” answered Mr. Lorry; “this is our poor

prisoner’s darling daughter, and only child.”

The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party

seemed to fall so threatening and dark on the child, that her

mother instinctively kneeled on the ground beside her, and held

her to her breast. The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and

her party seemed then to fall, threatening and dark, on both the

mother and the child.

“It is enough, my husband,” said Madame Defarge. “I have seen

them. We may go.”

But th