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A Tale of Two Cities

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“What purpose?” the spy asked. “What purpose?” the spy asked.
“It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your company—at the office of Tellson’s Bank, for instance?” “It would be difficult and dangerous to explain in the street. Could you do me the favor of meeting with me for a few minutes in secret, at the office of Tellson’s Bank for instance?”
“Under a threat?” “Are you threatening me?”
“Oh! Did I say that?” “Oh! Did I say that?”
“Then, why should I go there?” “If you’re not threatening me, why should I go there?”
“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can’t say, if you can’t.” “Really, Mr. Barsad. I can’t tell you why if you don’t already know.”
“Do you mean that you won’t say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked. “Do you mean that you won’t tell me why, sir?” asked the spy uncertainly.
“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won’t.” “You understand me very well, Mr. Barsad. I won’t tell you.”
Carton’s negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind, and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and made the most of it. Carton’s casual manner helped his quickness and skill in putting his secret plan into action and dealing with a man like Barsad. He noticed this advantage and used it.
“Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it’s your doing.” “Now I told you,” said the spy, looking accusingly at Miss Pross, “if I get into any trouble because of this, it’s your fault.”
“Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. “Don’t be ungrateful. But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?” “Come, come, Mr. Barsad,” exclaimed Sydney. “Don’t be ungrateful. If it weren’t for the great respect I have for your sister, I might not have presented my little proposal so nicely. I think it will benefit both of us. Will you go with me to the bank?”
“I’ll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I’ll go with you.” “I’ll listen to what you have to say. Yes, I’ll go with you.”
“I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city, at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry’s with us. Are we ready? Come then!” “I suggest that we escort your sister to the corner of her street first. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This isn’t a good city for you to be out unprotected at this time. And as Mr. Cruncher knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry’s with us. Are we ready? Come on then!”
Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney’s arm and looked up in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved her affection, and with Sydney’s friendly reassurances, adequately to heed what she observed. Miss Pross remembered soon afterward, and to the end of her life, that as she put her hands on Sydney’s arm, looked into his face, and begged him not to hurt Solomon, there was strength of purpose in the arm and an inspired look in his eyes. These were not only a contradiction to his casual manner, but they changed him and made him look more respectable. She was too occupied then with her fears about her brother, who was so undeserving of her love, and with Sydney’s friendly assurances, to pay attention to the change she saw in him.
They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr. Lorry’s, which was within a few minutes’ walk. John Barsad, or Solomon Pross, walked at his side. They left her on her street corner. Carton led the way to Mr. Lorry’s office, which was a few minutes away. John Barsad, also known as Solomon Pross, walked beside him.
Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery little log or two of fire—perhaps looking into their blaze for the picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson’s, who had looked into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with which he saw a stranger. Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner and was sitting in front of a cheerful little fire. Perhaps he was looking in the flames for the image of his younger self who had looked into the red coals at the Royal George Hotel in Dover many years ago. He turned his head as they entered and looked surprised when he saw the stranger, Barsad.
“Miss Pross’s brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.” “This is Mr. Barsad, sir. He is Miss Pross’s brother,” said Sydney.
“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an association with the name—and with the face.” “Barsad?” repeated Mr. Lorry. “Barsad? I know the name. And the face.”

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