The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent bars, peeped through them jocosely. ¡¡¡¡"But it's not my business," said he. And went on sawing his wood. ¡¡¡¡Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she appeared. ¡¡¡¡"What? Walking here again, citizeness?" ¡¡¡¡"Yes, citizen." ¡¡¡¡"Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?" ¡¡
¡¡"Do I say yes, mamma?" whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her. ¡¡¡¡"Yes, dearest." ¡¡¡¡"Yes, citizen." ¡¡¡¡"Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head comes!" The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment