much staining blood, those feet had come to meet that water.

Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said. “The wife of

Evremonde; where is she?”

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It flashed upon Miss Pross’s mind that the doors were all

standing open, and would suggest the flight. Her first act was to

shut them. There were four in the room, and she shut them all.

She then placed herself before the door of the chamber which

Lucie had occupied.

Madame Defarge’s dark eyes followed her through this rapid

movement, and rested on her when it was finished. Miss Pross had

nothing beautiful about her; years had not tamed the wildness, or

softened the grimness, of her appearance; but, she too was a

determined woman in her different way, and she measured

Madame Defarge with her eyes, every inch.

“You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,” said

Miss Pross, in her breathing. “Nevertheless, you shall not get the

better of me. I am an Englishwoman.”

Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with

something of Miss Pross’s own perception that they two were at

bay. She saw a tight, hard, wiry woman before her, as Mr. Lorry

had seen in the same figure a woman with a strong hand, in the

years gone by. She knew full well that Miss Pross was the family’s

devoted friend; Miss Pross knew full well that Madame De