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Pagina 408 de 896

Autor: Charles Dickens

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A rumour just lived in the village--had a faint and bare
existence there, as its people had--that when the knife struck
home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to faces of anger
and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled up
forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a
cruel look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for
ever. In the stone face over the great window of the bed-chamber
where the murder was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the
sculptured nose, which everybody recognised, and which nobody had
seen of old; and on the scarce occasions when two or three ragged
peasants emerged from the crowd to take a hurried peep at
Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a skinny finger would not have
pointed to it for a minute, before they all started away among
the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares who could find
a living there.

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