English
Awonderfulcornerforechoes,ithasbeenremarked,thatcornerwheretheDoctorlived.
Everbusilywindingthegoldenthreadwhichboundherhusband,andherfather,andherself,andherolddirectressandcompanion,inalifeofquietbliss,Luciesatinthestillhouseinthetranquillyresoundingcorner,listeningtotheechoingfootstepsofyears.
Atfirst,thereweretimes,thoughshewasaperfectlyhappyyoungwife,whenherworkwouldslowlyfallfromherhands,andhereyeswouldbedimmed.
For,therewassomethingcomingintheechoes,somethinglight,afaroff,andscarcelyaudibleyet,thatstirredherhearttoomuch.
Flutteringhopesanddoubts—hopes,ofaloveasyetunknowntoher:doubts,ofherremaininguponearth,toenjoythatnewdelight—dividedherbreast.
Amongtheechoesthen,therewouldarisethesoundoffootstepsatherownearlygrave;andthoughtsofthehusbandwhowouldbeleftsodesolate,andwhowouldmournforhersomuch,swelledtohereyes,andbrokelikewaves.
Thattimepassed,andherlittleLucielayonherbosom.
Then,amongtheadvancingechoes,therewasthetreadofhertinyfeetandthesoundofherprattlingwords.
Letgreaterechoesresoundastheywould,theyoungmotheratthecradlesidecouldalwayshearthosecoming.
Theycame,andtheshadyhousewassunnywithachild’slaugh,andtheDivinefriendofchildren,towhominhertroubleshehadconfidedhers,seemedtotakeherchildinhisarms,asHetookthechildofold,andmadeitasacredjoytoher.
Everbusilywindingthegoldenthreadthatboundthemalltogether,weavingtheserviceofherhappyinfluencethroughthetissueofalltheirlives,andmakingitpredominatenowhere,Lucieheardintheechoesofyearsnonebutfriendlyandsoothingsounds.
Herhusband’sstepwasstrongandprosperousamongthem;herfather’sfirmandequal.
Lo,MissPross,inharnessofstring,awakeningtheechoes,asanunrulycharger,whip-corrected,snortingandpawingtheearthundertheplane-treeinthegarden!
Evenwhenthereweresoundsofsorrowamongtherest,theywerenotharshnorcruel.
Evenwhengoldenhair,likeherown,layinahaloonapillowroundthewornfaceofalittleboy,andhesaid,witharadiantsmile,“Dearpapaandmamma,Iamverysorrytoleaveyouboth,andtoleavemyprettysister;butIamcalled,andImustgo!”
thosewerenottearsallofagonythatwettedhisyoungmother’scheek,asthespiritdepartedfromherembracethathadbeenentrustedtoit.Sufferthemandforbidthemnot.TheyseemyFather’sface.OFather,blessedwords!
Thus,therustlingofanAngel’swingsgotblendedwiththeotherechoes,andtheywerenotwhollyofearth,buthadinthemthatbreathofHeaven.
Sighsofthewindsthatblewoveralittlegarden-tombweremingledwiththemalso,andbothwereaudibletoLucie,inahushedmurmur—likethebreathingofasummerseaasleepuponasandyshore—asthelittleLucie,comicallystudiousatthetaskofthemorning,ordressingadollathermother’sfootstool,chatteredinthetonguesoftheTwoCitiesthatwereblendedinherlife.
TheEchoesrarelyansweredtotheactualtreadofSydneyCarton.
Somehalf-dozentimesayear,atmost,heclaimedhisprivilegeofcominginuninvited,andwouldsitamongthemthroughtheevening,ashehadoncedoneoften.Henevercamethereheatedwithwine.
Andoneotherthingregardinghimwaswhisperedintheechoes,whichhasbeenwhisperedbyalltrueechoesforagesandages.
Nomaneverreallylovedawoman,losther,andknewherwithablamelessthoughanunchangedmind,whenshewasawifeandamother,butherchildrenhadastrangesympathywithhim—aninstinctivedelicacyofpityforhim.
Whatfinehiddensensibilitiesaretouchedinsuchacase,noechoestell;butitisso,anditwassohere.
CartonwasthefirststrangertowhomlittleLucieheldoutherchubbyarms,andhekepthisplacewithherasshegrew.
Thelittleboyhadspokenofhim,almostatthelast.“PoorCarton!Kisshimforme!”
Mr.Stryvershoulderedhiswaythroughthelaw,likesomegreatengineforcingitselfthroughturbidwater,anddraggedhisusefulfriendinhiswake,likeaboattowedastern.
Astheboatsofavouredisusuallyinaroughplight,andmostlyunderwater,so,Sydneyhadaswampedlifeofit.
But,easyandstrongcustom,unhappilysomucheasierandstrongerinhimthananystimulatingsenseofdesertordisgrace,madeitthelifehewastolead;andhenomorethoughtofemergingfromhisstateoflion’sjackal,thananyrealjackalmaybesupposedtothinkofrisingtobealion.
Stryverwasrich;hadmarriedafloridwidowwithpropertyandthreeboys,whohadnothingparticularlyshiningaboutthembutthestraighthairoftheirdumplingheads.
Thesethreeyounggentlemen,Mr.Stryver,exudingpatronageofthemostoffensivequalityfromeverypore,hadwalkedbeforehimlikethreesheeptothequietcornerinSoho,andhadofferedaspupilstoLucie’shusband:delicatelysaying“Halloa!
herearethreelumpsofbread-and-cheesetowardsyourmatrimonialpicnic,Darnay!”
Thepoliterejectionofthethreelumpsofbread-and-cheesehadquitebloatedMr.Stryverwithindignation,whichheafterwardsturnedtoaccountinthetrainingoftheyounggentlemen,bydirectingthemtobewareoftheprideofBeggars,likethattutor-fellow.
HewasalsointhehabitofdeclaimingtoMrs.Stryver,overhisfull-bodiedwine,ontheartsMrs.Darnayhadonceputinpracticeto“catch”him,andonthediamond-cut-diamondartsinhimself,madam,whichhadrenderedhim“nottobecaught.”
SomeofhisKing’sBenchfamiliars,whowereoccasionallypartiestothefull-bodiedwineandthelie,excusedhimforthelatterbysayingthathehadtolditsooften,thathebelievedithimself—whichissurelysuchanincorrigibleaggravationofanoriginallybadoffence,astojustifyanysuchoffender’sbeingcarriedofftosomesuitablyretiredspot,andtherehangedoutoftheway.
ThesewereamongtheechoestowhichLucie,sometimespensive,sometimesamusedandlaughing,listenedintheechoingcorner,untilherlittledaughterwassixyearsold.
Howneartoherhearttheechoesofherchild’streadcame,andthoseofherowndearfather’s,alwaysactiveandself-possessed,andthoseofherdearhusband’s,neednotbetold.
Nor,howthelightestechooftheirunitedhome,directedbyherselfwithsuchawiseandelegantthriftthatitwasmoreabundantthananywaste,wasmusictoher.
Nor,howtherewereechoesallabouther,sweetinherears,ofthemanytimesherfatherhadtoldherthathefoundhermoredevotedtohimmarried(ifthatcouldbe)thansingle,andofthemanytimesherhusbandhadsaidtoherthatnocaresanddutiesseemedtodivideherloveforhimorherhelptohim,andaskedher“Whatisthemagicsecret,mydarling,ofyourbeingeverythingtoallofus,asiftherewereonlyoneofus,yetneverseemingtobehurried,ortohavetoomuchtodo?”
But,therewereotherechoes,fromadistance,thatrumbledmenacinglyinthecornerallthroughthisspaceoftime.
Anditwasnow,aboutlittleLucie’ssixthbirthday,thattheybegantohaveanawfulsound,asofagreatstorminFrancewithadreadfulsearising.
Onanightinmid-July,onethousandsevenhundredandeighty-nine,Mr.Lorrycameinlate,fromTellson’s,andsathimselfdownbyLucieandherhusbandinthedarkwindow.
Itwasahot,wildnight,andtheywereallthreeremindedoftheoldSundaynightwhentheyhadlookedatthelightningfromthesameplace.
“Ibegantothink,”saidMr.Lorry,pushinghisbrownwigback,“thatIshouldhavetopassthenightatTellson’s.
Wehavebeensofullofbusinessallday,thatwehavenotknownwhattodofirst,orwhichwaytoturn.
ThereissuchanuneasinessinParis,thatwehaveactuallyarunofconfidenceuponus!
Ourcustomersoverthere,seemnottobeabletoconfidetheirpropertytousfastenough.
ThereispositivelyamaniaamongsomeofthemforsendingittoEngland.”
“Thathasabadlook,”saidDarnay—
“Abadlook,yousay,mydearDarnay?Yes,butwedon’tknowwhatreasonthereisinit.Peoplearesounreasonable!
SomeofusatTellson’saregettingold,andwereallycan’tbetroubledoutoftheordinarycoursewithoutdueoccasion.”
“Still,”saidDarnay,“youknowhowgloomyandthreateningtheskyis.”
“Iknowthat,tobesure,”assentedMr.Lorry,tryingtopersuadehimselfthathissweettemperwassoured,andthathegrumbled,“butIamdeterminedtobepeevishaftermylongday’sbotheration.WhereisManette?”
“Hereheis,”saidtheDoctor,enteringthedarkroomatthemoment.
“Iamquitegladyouareathome;forthesehurriesandforebodingsbywhichIhavebeensurroundedalldaylong,havemademenervouswithoutreason.Youarenotgoingout,Ihope?”
“No;Iamgoingtoplaybackgammonwithyou,ifyoulike,”saidtheDoctor.
“Idon’tthinkIdolike,ifImayspeakmymind.Iamnotfittobepittedagainstyouto-night.Istheteaboardstillthere,Lucie?Ican’tsee.”
“Ofcourse,ithasbeenkeptforyou.”
“Thankye,mydear.Thepreciouschildissafeinbed?”
“Andsleepingsoundly.”
“That’sright;allsafeandwell!Idon’tknowwhyanythingshouldbeotherwisethansafeandwellhere,thankGod;butIhavebeensoputoutallday,andIamnotasyoungasIwas!Mytea,mydear!Thankye.
Now,comeandtakeyourplaceinthecircle,andletussitquiet,andheartheechoesaboutwhichyouhaveyourtheory.”
“Notatheory;itwasafancy.”
“Afancy,then,mywisepet,”saidMr.Lorry,pattingherhand.“Theyareverynumerousandveryloud,though,aretheynot?Onlyhearthem!”
Headlong,mad,anddangerousfootstepstoforcetheirwayintoanybody’slife,footstepsnoteasilymadecleanagainifoncestainedred,thefootstepsraginginSaintAntoineafaroff,asthelittlecirclesatinthedarkLondonwindow.
SaintAntoinehadbeen,thatmorning,avastduskymassofscarecrowsheavingtoandfro,withfrequentgleamsoflightabovethebillowyheads,wheresteelbladesandbayonetsshoneinthesun.
AtremendousroararosefromthethroatofSaintAntoine,andaforestofnakedarmsstruggledintheairlikeshrivelledbranchesoftreesinawinterwind:allthefingersconvulsivelyclutchingateveryweaponorsemblanceofaweaponthatwasthrownupfromthedepthsbelow,nomatterhowfaroff.
Whogavethemout,whencetheylastcame,wheretheybegan,throughwhatagencytheycrookedlyquiveredandjerked,scoresatatime,overtheheadsofthecrowd,likeakindoflightning,noeyeinthethrongcouldhavetold;but,musketswerebeingdistributed—sowerecartridges,powder,andball,barsofironandwood,knives,axes,pikes,everyweaponthatdistractedingenuitycoulddiscoverordevise.
Peoplewhocouldlayholdofnothingelse,setthemselveswithbleedinghandstoforcestonesandbricksoutoftheirplacesinwalls.
EverypulseandheartinSaintAntoinewasonhigh-feverstrainandathigh-feverheat.
Everylivingcreaturethereheldlifeasofnoaccount,andwasdementedwithapassionatereadinesstosacrificeit.
Asawhirlpoolofboilingwatershasacentrepoint,so,allthisragingcircledroundDefarge’swine-shop,andeveryhumandropinthecaldronhadatendencytobesuckedtowardsthevortexwhereDefargehimself,alreadybegrimedwithgunpowderandsweat,issuedorders,issuedarms,thrustthismanback,draggedthismanforward,disarmedonetoarmanother,labouredandstroveinthethickestoftheuproar.
“Keepneartome,JacquesThree,”criedDefarge;“anddoyou,JacquesOneandTwo,separateandputyourselvesattheheadofasmanyofthesepatriotsasyoucan.Whereismywife?”
“Eh,well!Hereyouseeme!”
saidmadame,composedasever,butnotknittingto-day.
Madame’sresoluterighthandwasoccupiedwithanaxe,inplaceoftheusualsofterimplements,andinhergirdlewereapistolandacruelknife.
“Wheredoyougo,mywife?”
“Igo,”saidmadame,“withyouatpresent.Youshallseemeattheheadofwomen,by-and-bye.”
“Come,then!”criedDefarge,inaresoundingvoice.“Patriotsandfriends,weareready!TheBastille!”
WitharoarthatsoundedasifallthebreathinFrancehadbeenshapedintothedetestedword,thelivingsearose,waveonwave,depthondepth,andoverflowedthecitytothatpoint.
Alarm-bellsringing,drumsbeating,thesearagingandthunderingonitsnewbeach,theattackbegan.
Deepditches,doubledrawbridge,massivestonewalls,eightgreattowers,cannon,muskets,fireandsmoke.
Throughthefireandthroughthesmoke—inthefireandinthesmoke,fortheseacasthimupagainstacannon,andontheinstanthebecameacannonier—Defargeofthewine-shopworkedlikeamanfulsoldier,Twofiercehours.
Deepditch,singledrawbridge,massivestonewalls,eightgreattowers,cannon,muskets,fireandsmoke.Onedrawbridgedown!“Work,comradesall,work!
Work,JacquesOne,JacquesTwo,JacquesOneThousand,JacquesTwoThousand,JacquesFive-and-TwentyThousand;inthenameofalltheAngelsortheDevils—whichyouprefer—work!”
ThusDefargeofthewine-shop,stillathisgun,whichhadlonggownhot.
“Tome,women!”criedmadamehiswife.“What!
Wecankillaswellasthemenwhentheplaceistaken!”
Andtoher,withashrillthirstycry,troopingwomenvariouslyarmed,butallarmedageinhungerandrevenge.
Cannon,muskets,fireandsmoke;but,stillthedeepditch,thesingledrawbridge,themassivestonewails,andtheeightgreattowers.
Slightdisplacementsoftheragingsea,madebythefallingwounded.
Flashingweapons,blazingtorches,smokingwaggonloadsofwetstraw,hardworkatneighbouringbarricadesinalldirections,shrieks,volleys,execrations,braverywithoutstint,boomsmashandrattle,andthefurioussoundingofthelivingsea;but,stillthedeepditch,andthesingledrawbridge,andthemassivestonewalls,andtheeightgreattowers,andstillDefargeofthewine-shopathisgun,growndoublyhotbytheserviceofFourfiercehours.
Awhiteflagfromwithinthefortress,andaparley—thisdimlyperceptiblethroughtheragingstorm,nothingaudibleinit—suddenlythesearoseimmeasurablywiderandhigher,andsweptDefargeofthewine-shopoverthelowereddrawbridge,pastthemassivestoneouterwalls,inamongtheeightgreattowerssurrendered!
Soresistlesswastheforceoftheoceanbearinghimon,thateventodrawhisbreathorturnhisheadwasasimpracticableasifhehadbeenstrugglinginthesurfattheSouthSea,untilhewaslandedintheoutercourtyardoftheBastille.
There,againstanangleofawall,hemadeastruggletolookabouthim.
JacquesThreewasnearlyathisside;MadameDefarge,stillheadingsomeofherwomen,wasvisibleintheinnerdistance,andherknifewasinherhand.
Everywherewastumult,exultation,deafeningandmaniacalbewilderment,astoundingnoise,yetfuriousdumb-show.
“ThePrisoners!”
“TheRecords!”
“Thesecretcells!”
“Theinstrumentsoftorture!”
“ThePrisoners!”
Ofallthesecries,andtenthousandincoherences,“ThePrisoners!”
wasthecrymosttakenupbytheseathatrushedin,asiftherewereaneternityofpeople,aswellasoftimeandspace.
Whentheforemostbillowsrolledpast,bearingtheprisonofficerswiththem,andthreateningthemallwithinstantdeathifanysecretnookremainedundisclosed,Defargelaidhisstronghandonthebreastofoneofthesemen—amanwithagreyhead,whohadalightedtorchinhishand—separatedhimfromtherest,andgothimbetweenhimselfandthewall.
“ShowmetheNorthTower!”saidDefarge.“Quick!”
“Iwillfaithfully,”repliedtheman,“ifyouwillcomewithme.Butthereisnoonethere.”
“WhatisthemeaningofOneHundredandFive,NorthTower?”askedDefarge.“Quick!”
“Themeaning,monsieur?”
“Doesitmeanacaptive,oraplaceofcaptivity?OrdoyoumeanthatIshallstrikeyoudead?”
“Killhim!”croakedJacquesThree,whohadcomecloseup.
“Monsieur,itisacell.”
“Showitme!”
“Passthisway,then.”
JacquesThree,withhisusualcravingonhim,andevidentlydisappointedbythedialoguetakingaturnthatdidnotseemtopromisebloodshed,heldbyDefarge’sarmasheheldbytheturnkey’s.
Theirthreeheadshadbeenclosetogetherduringthisbriefdiscourse,andithadbeenasmuchastheycoulddotohearoneanother,eventhen:sotremendouswasthenoiseofthelivingocean,initsirruptionintotheFortress,anditsinundationofthecourtsandpassagesandstaircases.
Allaroundoutside,too,itbeatthewallswithadeep,hoarseroar,fromwhich,occasionally,somepartialshoutsoftumultbrokeandleapedintotheairlikespray.
Throughgloomyvaultswherethelightofdayhadnevershone,pasthideousdoorsofdarkdensandcages,downcavernousflightsofsteps,andagainupsteepruggedascentsofstoneandbrick,morelikedrywaterfallsthanstaircases,Defarge,theturnkey,andJacquesThree,linkedhandandarm,wentwithallthespeedtheycouldmake.
Hereandthere,especiallyatfirst,theinundationstartedonthemandsweptby;butwhentheyhaddonedescending,andwerewindingandclimbingupatower,theywerealone.
Hemmedinherebythemassivethicknessofwallsandarches,thestormwithinthefortressandwithoutwasonlyaudibletotheminadull,subduedway,asifthenoiseoutofwhichtheyhadcomehadalmostdestroyedtheirsenseofhearing.
Theturnkeystoppedatalowdoor,putakeyinaclashinglock,swungthedoorslowlyopen,andsaid,astheyallbenttheirheadsandpassedin:
“Onehundredandfive,NorthTower!”
Therewasasmall,heavily-grated,unglazedwindowhighinthewall,withastonescreenbeforeit,sothattheskycouldbeonlyseenbystoopinglowandlookingup.
Therewasasmallchimney,heavilybarredacross,afewfeetwithin.
Therewasaheapofoldfeatherywood-ashesonthehearth.
Therewasastool,andtable,andastrawbed.
Therewerethefourblackenedwalls,andarustedironringinoneofthem.
“Passthattorchslowlyalongthesewalls,thatImayseethem,”saidDefargetotheturnkey.
Themanobeyed,andDefargefollowedthelightcloselywithhiseyes.
“Stop!—Lookhere,Jacques!”
“A.M.!”croakedJacquesThree,ashereadgreedily.
“AlexandreManette,”saidDefargeinhisear,followingtheletterswithhisswartforefinger,deeplyengrainedwithgunpowder.“Andherehewrote`apoorphysician.’
Anditwashe,withoutdoubt,whoscratchedacalendaronthisstone.Whatisthatinyourhand?Acrowbar?Giveitme!”
Hehadstillthelinstockofhisguninhisownhand.Hemadeasuddenexchangeofthetwoinstruments,andturningontheworm-eatenstoolandtable,beatthemtopiecesinafewblows.
“Holdthelighthigher!”hesaid,wrathfully,totheturnkey.
“Lookamongthosefragmentswithcare,Jacques.Andsee!
Hereismyknife,”throwingittohim;“ripopenthatbed,andsearchthestraw.Holdthelighthigher,you!”
Withamenacinglookattheturnkeyhecrawleduponthehearth,and,peeringupthechimney,struckandprisedatitssideswiththecrowbar,andworkedattheirongratingacrossit.
Inafewminutes,somemortaranddustcamedroppingdown,whichheavertedhisfacetoavoid;andinit,andintheoldwood-ashes,andinacreviceinthechimneyintowhichhisweaponhadslippedorwroughtitself,hegropedwithacautioustouch.
“Nothinginthewood,andnothinginthestraw,Jacques?”
“Nothing.”
“Letuscollectthemtogether,inthemiddleofthecell.So!Lightthem,you!”
Theturnkeyfiredthelittlepile,whichblazedhighandhot.
Stoopingagaintocomeoutatthelow-archeddoor,theyleftitburning,andretracedtheirwaytothecourtyard;seemingtorecovertheirsenseofhearingastheycamedown,untiltheywereintheragingfloodoncemore.
Theyfounditsurgingandtossing,inquestofDefargehimself.
SaintAntoinewasclamoroustohaveitswine-shopkeeperforemostintheguarduponthegovernorwhohaddefendedtheBastilleandshotthepeople.
Otherwise,thegovernorwouldnotbemarchedtotheHoteldeVilleforjudgment.
Otherwise,thegovernorwouldescape,andthepeople’sblood(suddenlyofsomevalue,aftermanyyearsofworthlessness)beunavenged.
Inthehowlinguniverseofpassionandcontentionthatseemedtoencompassthisgrimoldofficerconspicuousinhisgreycoatandreddecoration,therewasbutonequitesteadyfigure,andthatwasawoman’s.“See,thereismyhusband!”shecried,pointinghimout.“SeeDefarge!”
Shestoodimmovableclosetothegrainoldofficer,andremainedimmovableclosetohim;remainedimmovableclosetohimthroughthestreets,asDefargeandtherestborehimalong;remainedimmovableclosetohimwhenhewasgotnearhisdestination,andbegantobestruckatfrombehind;remainedimmovableclosetohimwhenthelong-gatheringrainofstabsandblowsfellheavy;wassoclosetohimwhenhedroppeddeadunderit,that,suddenlyanimated,sheputherfootuponhisneck,andwithhercruelknife—longready—hewedoffhishead.
Thehourwascome,whenSaintAntoinewastoexecutehishorribleideaofhoistingupmenforlampstoshowwhathecouldbeanddo.
SaintAntoine’sbloodwasup,andthebloodoftyrannyanddominationbytheironhandwasdown—downonthestepsoftheHoteldeVillewherethegovernor’sbodylay—downonthesoleoftheshoeofMadameDefargewhereshehadtroddenonthebodytosteadyitformutilation.“Lowerthelampyonder!”
criedSaintAntoine,afterglaringroundforanewmeansofdeath;“hereisoneofhissoldierstobeleftonguard!”
Theswingingsentinelwasposted,andthesearushedon.
Theseaofblackandthreateningwaters,andofdestructiveupheavingofwaveagainstwave,whosedepthswereyetunfathomedandwhoseforceswereyetunknown.
Theremorselessseaofturbulentlyswayingshapes,voicesofvengeance,andfaceshardenedinthefurnacesofsufferinguntilthetouchofpitycouldmakenomarkonthem.
But,intheoceanoffaceswhereeveryfierceandfuriousexpressionwasinvividlife,thereweretwogroupsoffaces—eachseveninnumber—sofixedlycontrastingwiththerest,thatneverdidsearollwhichboremorememorablewreckswithit.
Sevenfacesofprisoners,suddenlyreleasedbythestormthathadbursttheirtomb,werecarriedhighoverhead:allscared,alllost,allwonderingandamazed,asiftheLastDaywerecome,andthosewhorejoicedaroundthemwerelostspirits.
Othersevenfacestherewere,carriedhigher,sevendeadfaces,whosedroopingeyelidsandhalf-seeneyesawaitedtheLastDay.
Impassivefaces,yetwithasuspended—notanabolished—expressiononthem;faces,rather,inafearfulpause,ashavingyettoraisethedroppedlidsoftheeyes,andbearwitnesswiththebloodlesslips,“THOUDIDSTIT!”
Sevenprisonersreleased,sevengoryheadsonpikes,thekeysoftheaccursedfortressoftheeightstrongtowers,somediscoveredlettersandothermemorialsofprisonersofoldtime,longdeadofbrokenhearts,—such,andsuch—like,theloudlyechoingfootstepsofSaintAntoineescortthroughtheParisstreetsinmid-July,onethousandsevenhundredandeighty-nine.
Now,HeavendefeatthefancyofLucieDarnay,andkeepthesefeetfaroutofherlife!
For,theyareheadlong,mad,anddangerous;andintheyearssolongafterthebreakingofthecaskatDefarge’swine-shopdoor,theyarenoteasilypurifiedwhenoncestainedred.
Share this article to
FINISH