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the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend
Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow
from him! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into
blind frenzy, whirled about, striking and tearing at their own
friends until they dropped into a passionate swoon, and were only
saved by the men belonging to them from being trampled under

Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon
was at the Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint
Antoine knew his own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men
and women flocked out of the Quarter so fast, and drew even these
last dregs after them with such a force of suction, that within a
quarter of an hour there was not a human creature in Saint
Antoine’s bosom but a few old crones and the wailing children.
No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination
where this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into
the adjacent open space and streets. The Defarges, husband and
wife, The Vengeance, and Jacques Three, were in the first press,
and at no great distance from him in the Hall.

“See!” cried madame, pointing with her knife. “See the old villain
bound with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon
his back. Ha, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!” Madame
put her knife under her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.
The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the
cause of her satisfaction to those behind them, and those again
explaining to others, and those to others, the neighbouring streets
resounded with the clapping of hands. Similarly, during two or
three hours of drawl, and the winnowing of many bushels of
words, Madame Defarge’s frequent expressions of impatience were
taken up, with marvellous quickness, at a distance: the more
readily, because certain men who had by some wonderful exercise
of agility climbed up the external architecture to look in from the
windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a telegraph
between her and the crowd outside the building.

At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope
or protection, directly down upon the old prisoner’s head. The
favour was too much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and
chaff that had stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint
Antoine had got him!

It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd.
Defarge had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the
miserable wretch in a deadly embrace-Madame Defarge had but
followed and turned her hand in one of the ropes with which he
was tied-The Vengeance and Jacques Three were not yet up with
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