飞扬小说网

第277章（第2页）

a garden of public diversion, are a number of women, busily

knitting. On one of the foremost chairs, stands The Vengeance,

looking about for her friend.

“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her?

Therese Defarge!”

“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the

sisterhood.

“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance petulantly.

“Therese.”

“Louder,” the woman recommends.

Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely

hear thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added,

and yet it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to

seek her, lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers

have done dread deeds, it is questionable whether of their own

wills they will go far enough to find her!

“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the

chair, “and here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be