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Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to

soften his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he

could, with the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations,

when Madame Defarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over

the customers. Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the

great brotherhood of Spies had become, even in one short week,

extremely chary of trusting themselves to the saint's mercies.

The lamps across his streets had a portentously elastic swing

with them.