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A Christmas Carol
Charles Dickens
Stave 5 – THE END OF IT
Category Archives: Charles Dickens
A Christmas Carol – Stave 3 – Part 2
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A Christmas Carol
Charles Dickens
Stave 3 – Part 2
A Christmas Carol – Stave 3 – Part 1
https://www.podbean.com/media/share/pb-dipd4-114172c
A Christmas Carol
Charles Dickens
Stave 3 – Part 1
A Christmas Carol – Stave 1 – Part 2
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A Christmas Carol
Charles Dickens
Stave 1 – Part 2
A Christmas Carol – Stave 1 – Part 1
https://www.podbean.com/media/share/pb-yt83e-113eb5b
A Christmas Carol
Charles Dickens
Stave 1 – Part 1
A Tale of Two Cities – Chapter XLV – THE END
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A Tale of Two Cities
Chapter XLV
The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
ALONG the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day’s wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself, are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind.
A Tale of Two Cities – Chapter XLIV
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A Tale of Two Cities
Chapter XLIV
The Knitting Done
IN that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate Madame Defarge held darkly ominous council with The Vengeance and Jacques Three of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame Defarge confer with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer, erst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the conference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who was not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.
A Tale of Two Cities – Chapter XLIII
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A Tale of Two Cities
Chapter XLIII
Fifty-Two
IN the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless everlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants were appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday, the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set apart.
True to Type 