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A Tale of Two Cities

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“What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream; speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in English. “What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream. He spoke quickly, quietly, and in English.
“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again. “After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time, do I find you here!” “Oh, Solomon! My dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again. “I haven’t seen or heard from you for so long, and now I find you here!”
“Don’t call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?” asked the man, in a furtive, frightened way. “Don’t call me Solomon. Do you want to get me killed?” asked the man in a secretive, frightened way.
“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have I ever been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?” “Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have I ever treated you so badly that you can ask me such a cruel question?”
“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and come out, if you want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who’s this man?” “Then stop talking and come outside if you want to speak to me,” said Solomon. “Pay for your wine and come outside. Who’s this man?”
Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr. Cruncher.” Miss Pross shook her head dejectedly at her cold-hearted brother and said through her tears. “This is Mr. Cruncher.”
“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think me a ghost?” “He can come outside too,” said Solomon. “Does he think I’m a ghost?”
Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule through her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and pursuits. Mr. Cruncher did, in fact, look like he had seen a ghost, but he didn’t say a word. Fighting back her tears, Miss Pross looked through her

reticule

a small purse made of netting or lightweight fabric usually closed by a drawstring

reticule
and with great difficulty paid for the wine. As she did so, Solomon turned to the customers in the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity wine shop and offered them an explanation in French. This made them all go back to what they had been doing.
“Now,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, “what do you want?” “Now, what do you want?” asked Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner.
“How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away from!” cried Miss Pross, “to give me such a greeting, and show me no affection.” “You are my brother, and I have always loved you,” cried Miss Pross. “How cruel it is for you to greet me this way and be so cold to me.”
“There. Confound it! There,” said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross’s lips with his own. “Now are you content?” “There, confound it! There,” said Solomon, kissing her on the lips quickly. “Now are you happy?”
Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence. Miss Pross shook her head and cried silently.
“If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother Solomon, “I am not surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If you really don’t want to endanger my existence—which I half believe you do—go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I am an official.” “If you expect me to be surprised, I’m not,” said her brother. “I knew you were here. I know about most people who are here. If you don’t want to put my life in danger—and I half think you do—go your way as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I am an official now.”
“My English brother Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, casting up her tear-fraught eyes, “that had the makings in him of one of the best and greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in his—” “My English brother, Solomon,” said Miss Pross sadly, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes, “who could have been one of the greatest men in England, is an official among foreigners! And such awful foreigners! I’d almost rather have seen you dead and lying in your grave.”
“I said so!” cried her brother, interrupting. “I knew it. You want to be the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just as I am getting on!” “I told you!” cried her brother, interrupting her. “I knew it. You want to get me killed. I’ll be made a suspect by my own sister. Just as I am starting to do well for myself!”
“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross. “Far rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me, and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will detain you no longer.” “Heaven forbid!” cried Miss Pross. “I would rather never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have always loved you and always will. Say just one kind word to me and tell me there is no anger or conflict between us and I will let you go.”

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