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"You are right, Jacques," said the frenzied cripple. "We Frochards come of a race that kills!" The adversaries feinted around each other in circles, in the Latin mode of fighting that was their heritage. Coats or sidesteps parried or evaded blows. The knives gleamed, but did not go quickly home. If Jacques had the superior strength, Pierre was the more cat-like.
Pierre and Louise stood on the other side of the scaffold, the heavy structure of which quite hid the ruffian Frochards and their horseplay with Picard. Henriette had been borne up the steps of the guillotine a few moments before Pierre and Louise reached the scene. The cripple, terribly excited, was telling Louise of Henriette's being strapped to the board and shoved toward the knife vent.
And the weary months had dragged their ball and chain of silence and despair still more wearingly in the failure of her many renewed attempts to find Louise. The blind sister was again swallowed up in the devouring city the Frochards were fled. Whither was Henriette to look whither to turn? She opened it. A line read at random comforted her.
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