Disclaimer: Most of this belongs to whoever owns Dickens' stuff now, so don't sue me for anything… Please.

Author's Note: All books are special in their own individual way, but classics are especially special because they are immortal. Even so, classics have every right to also be mutilated or at least changed by a variety of fans. This story is my attempt to do so. If you dislike the "present tense" stuff, do not worry. This is just my preface. The real stuff is all past tense. Well… Here goes.

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The girl stands by the marker, looking at it curiously.

Her black hair is pulled back by a purple band that matches the wide and thick array of her layered skirts. Large brown eyes mix-match a narrow nose and pixie-like face framed with straying hairs.

She lays a tanned, thin hand on the stone marker and traces the harsh, thick writing.

London. 3 miles.

The rattling of a cart can be heard approaching the road. Its heavy wheels bouncing on stones and rolling through ditches are loud, but nothing compared to the sound of the driver who is yelling curses at the "hideously slow" horse. 

The cart, horse, and driver suddenly appear over the hill, going straight for the wild-eyed girl. In a flurry of skirts and a flick of long black hair, the girl disappears, her brown eyes seeming to be the last thing to go.

Sir Cart Driver, intent on controlling his horse while beating it, does not notice his potato sacks moving to allow more room for his newest and largest passenger.

The last three are the longest and hardest.