famous abstract painting

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So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the outer courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he made a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side; Madame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the inner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult, exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet furious dumb-show. ¡¡¡¡"The Prisoners!" ¡¡¡¡"The Records!" ¡¡¡¡"The secret cells!" ¡¡
oil painting
¡¡"The instruments of torture!" ¡¡¡¡"The Prisoners!" Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, "The Prisoners!" was the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an eternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost billows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and threatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained undisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of these men- a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his hand- separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the wall.