visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how warped and

perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly

bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child’s head thus distracted,

the delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were

types of the disjointed time.

This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie

frightened and bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer’s

house, the feathery snow fell as quietly and lay as white and soft,

as if it had never been.

“O my father!” for he stood before her when he lifted up the

eyes she had momentarily darkened with her hand; “such a cruel,

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

bad sight.”

“I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don’t be

frightened. Not one of them would harm you.”

“I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of

my husband, and the mercies of these people” “We will set him

above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to the window,

and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see you. You may

kiss your hand towards the highest shelving roof.”

“I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!”

“You cannot see him, my poor dear?”

“No, father,” said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed

her hand, “no.”

A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. “I salute you,

citizeness,” from the Do