madame defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat, contemplating the wine-shop and the street. in both, there were several knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense of power enthroned on their distress. the raggedest nightcap, awry on the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: "i know how hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself; but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to destroy life in you?" every lean bare arm, that had been without work before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.