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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Charles Dickens

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“I salute you, citizens.—And the first danger passed!”

 

Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.

 

“Eh, well! Here you see me!” said madame, composed as ever, but not knitting to-day. Madame’s resolute right hand was occupied with an axe, in place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol and a cruel knife.

 

“Jacques,” returned Defarge, drawing himself up, “if madame my wife undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose a word of it—not a syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and her own symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in Madame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives, to erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or crimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge.”

 

Her father’s only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair, and wring them with a shriek of anguish.

 

“They wouldn’t have dared to do it, love,” responded the lady.

 

On pressed the people from the front—on, on, on, in a strong struggling current of angry faces, with here and there a glaring torch to lighten them up, and show them out in all their wrath and passion. The houses on the opposite side of the ditch had been entered by the mob; sashes were thrown up, or torn bodily out; there were tiers and tiers of faces in every window; cluster upon cluster of people clinging to every house-top. Each little bridge (and there were three in sight) bent beneath the weight of the crowd upon it. Still the current poured on to find some nook or hole from which to vent their shouts, and only for an instant see the wretch.

 

With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between the Jew’s finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded it up small, and tied it in his neckerchief.

 

“Yes, yes,” returned Oliver. “Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one prayer. Say only one, upon your knees, with me, and we will talk till morning.”

 

Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann’s curtsey; and inquired how the children were.

 

“They are mounting up, Handel,” Herbert would say; “upon my life, they are mounting up.”

 

Curious to know how the old gentleman stood informed concerning the reputation of Mr. Jaggers, I roared that name at him. He threw me into the greatest confusion by laughing heartily and replying in a very sprightly manner, “No, to be sure; you’re right.” And to this hour I have not the faintest notion what he meant, or what joke he thought I had made.

 

“Mind you, Mr. Pip,” said Wemmick, gravely in my ear, as he took my arm to be more confidential; “I don’t know that Mr. Jaggers does a better thing than the way in which he keeps himself so high. He’s always so high. His constant height is of a piece with his immense abilities. That Colonel durst no more take leave of him, than that turnkey durst ask him his intentions respecting a case. Then, between his height and them, he slips in his subordinate,—don’t you see?—and so he has ’em, soul and body.”

 

“As we are going in the same direction, Pip, we may walk together. Where are you bound for?”

 

“We made the money up this morning, sir,” said one of the men, submissively, while the other perused Mr. Jaggers’s face.

 

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