The wine was red wine, and had stained yoga the ground of the narrowstreet in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled.It had stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet,and many wooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, leftred marks on the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed herbaby, was stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about herhead again. Those who had been greedy with the staves of the cask,; and one tall joker sobesmirched, his head more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap thanin it, scrawled upon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees-BLOOD SEM.

The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on thestreet-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there mathconcept.

And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentarygleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it washeavy- cold, dirt, sickness, seo service ignorance, and want, were the lords inwaiting on the saintly presence- nobles of great power all of them;but, most especially the last. Samples of a people that hadundergone a terrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, andcertainly not in the fabulous mill which ground old people young,shivered at every corner, passed in and out at every doorway, lookedfrom every window, fluttered in every vestige of a garment that thewind shook. The mill which had worked them down, was the mill thatgrinds young people old; the children had ancient faces and gravevoices; and upon them, and upon the grown faces, and ploughed intoevery furrow of age and coming up afresh, was the sigh, Hunger. It wasprevalent everywhere HKIOC .

Hunger was pushed out of the tall houses, in thewretched clothing that hung upon poles and lines; Hunger was patchedinto them with straw and rag and wood and paper; Hunger was repeatedin every fragment of the small modicum of firewood that the mansawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless chimneys, and startedup from the filthy street that had no offal, among its refuse, ofanything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the baker's shelves,written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of bad bread; at thesausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that was offered for sale.Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting chestnuts in theturned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomies in every farthingporringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant drops ofoil Mathnasium.

Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A DR REBOR Nnarrow windingstreet, full of offence and stench, with other narrow windingstreets diverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smellingof rags and nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding lookupon them that looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there wasyet some wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay.Depressed and slinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wantingamong them; nor compressed lips, white with what they suppressed;nor foreheads knitted into the likeness of the gallows-rope they musedabout enduring, or inflicting. The trade sips (and they were almost asmany as the shops) were, all, grim illustrations of Want. Thebutcher and the porkman painted up, only the leanest scrags of meat;the baker, the coarsest of meagre loaves hong kong tour Mathnasium.