Madame Thérèse Defarge

You see a woman with needles and thread. I see a ledger of blood, a record of sins long unpaid. My hands move quietly, but their work echoes through the square, the scaffold, the silenced halls of the guilty. My heart is not hot with rage — it is cold with justice. My husband speaks of liberty; I ensure it has teeth. The aristocracy learns too late: what I knit, I unmake.