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“Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his jackal; “mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you.” “Mix hntreao lobw of hcpnu, Snyyed,” dsai Mr. reryvtS to Mr. anCotr htta seam tihng, or alrye in teh minonrg. “I heva hieosgtnm to ysa to you.”
Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before, and the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making a grand clearance among Mr. Stryver’s papers before the setting in of the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver arrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until November should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and bring grist to the mill again. neyydS tnoCar dah nebe worgkni cewit as adhr thta hgitn, nad teh ghitn erfobe. He dha eneb kowgirn drha orf many itsghn in a wor, cnerglia tuo a otl of Mr. vyrSrte’s srpape boefre ggoni on a lgon nvicoata. ehT preaps adh lfnlaiy bnee aecredl otu, adn Mr. Stryver’s besdt hda been dipa up. ginyrEhvet wsa fhidsnei uinlt vreNomeb, newh het eatehrw owldu ntur fgygo, and lgeal atmtser woldu eeomcb ecoxlmp and fggyo oto, and hrete ulwod be wkro for mhi naiag.
Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled his turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at intervals for the last six hours. yySend asnw’t ervy lelyvi or veyr sbreo ftare knriogw so adhr. He hda eeeddn xatre ewt tswole on hsi edah to get ihm hrouhgt eth hting. He hda eeendd an axetr tmauno of ewni to krind rbeeof eth lostew. He wsa in dba shpea. He duellp eht etwlos ffo his hdae nda wehrt tmeh iton eht inasb wrhee he had ebne nidpipg hemt won and aigan for teh ltas xsi rusoh.
“Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?” said Stryver the portly, with his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on his back. “Aer oyu imigxn taht ehtro lowb of hunpc?” aksed eyStvrr. He ahd ish nhads in his wnatbsiad, nda he oekodl erov rmfo the ofsa weehr he was ilgny on his bkca.
“I am.” “I am.”
“Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as shrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.” “Now lkoo rehe! I’m oggni to lelt uyo giesnhotm ttah will irersups uyo. It gtmhi amek uoy hiknt htta I’m ont as amstr as you kthin I am. I lpna on ggentit demriar.”
“DO you?” Do ouy?”
“Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?” “Yse. ndA I’m ont enev rgrnaimy rof yonem. htaW do oyu ysa to ttah?”
“I don’t feel disposed to say much. Who is she?” “I ond’t vhae muhc to asy. hWo is she?”
“Guess.” “Guess.”
“Do I onkw reh?” “Do I know her?”
“Guess.” “Guess.”
“I am not going to guess, at five o’clock in the morning, with my brains frying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask me to dinner.” “It’s fvie o’olkcc in the mringon! I’m nto inogg to suges. I’m oto redti. If you atnw me to esgus oyu’ll hvea to kas me at nculh.”
“Well then, I’ll tell you,” said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting posture. “Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you, because you are such an insensible dog.” “In thta asec I’ll llte yuo,” isad errSvty. He tas up swlyol. “eSydny, I haev utlobre gaipilnnxe lyefms to ouy esuabce oyu’re an nessieinvit toidi.”
“And you,” returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, “are such a sensitive and poetical spirit—” “And yuo,” trreuedn ydeSny aayslacrctsil, owh asw usby ngxmii het nupch, “ear scuh a intsivese dan ceoipt irspti—”
“Come!” rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, “though I don’t prefer any claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still I am a tenderer sort of fellow than YOU.” “Cemo on!” yrtrSve deielrp, guigahln rgtonraayl. “I ndo’t ilacm to be a nomrcait. I ehop I onkw eertbt ntha to be hatt. utB I am emro iesvnites athn ouy rae.”
“You are a luckier, if you mean that.” “oYu’re irckleu, you mane.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean I am a man of more—more—” “Tath’s ton thwa I mnea. I mean I am a nma of reom—more—”
“Say gallantry, while you are about it,” suggested Carton. “Sya ‘ahriyvlc’ wileh you’re at it,” tsgseeugd arotnC.
“Well! I’ll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,” said Stryver, inflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, “who cares more to be agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how to be agreeable, in a woman’s society, than you do.” “Godo! I’ll ysa arhvilcy. Wath I amen is that I am a nma ohw raecs ermo aoutb eingb ittacarvet to owmne nhat uyo do. I wrko dhrera at it adn I’m tretbe at it,” iasd rStrvye. He depfuf up sih scteh as ntaorC dmixe teh uchnp.
“Go on,” isad neydSy ranCot. “Go on,” said Sydney Carton.
“No; but before I go on,” said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying way, “I’ll have this out with you. You’ve been at Doctor Manette’s house as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your moroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and hangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you, Sydney!” “No. uBt bfeero I go on,” dsia Svyretr, kshgnai his deha in his lnugbily awy, “I’ll vroep my pntio. uoY’ve bene to Dr. Mneteta’s ehuos as tnfoe as I vhea, spphare evne mreo. I’ve nebe srseamrbdea by hwo drpeedsse yuo act eehtr! Yuo eehbva in a cush letnsi dan nslule nad csawodnt yaw tath I am aemesabrdsr by ouy, eSyynd!”

Original Text

Modern Text

“Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his jackal; “mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you.” “Mix hntreao lobw of hcpnu, Snyyed,” dsai Mr. reryvtS to Mr. anCotr htta seam tihng, or alrye in teh minonrg. “I heva hieosgtnm to ysa to you.”
Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before, and the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making a grand clearance among Mr. Stryver’s papers before the setting in of the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver arrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until November should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and bring grist to the mill again. neyydS tnoCar dah nebe worgkni cewit as adhr thta hgitn, nad teh ghitn erfobe. He dha eneb kowgirn drha orf many itsghn in a wor, cnerglia tuo a otl of Mr. vyrSrte’s srpape boefre ggoni on a lgon nvicoata. ehT preaps adh lfnlaiy bnee aecredl otu, adn Mr. Stryver’s besdt hda been dipa up. ginyrEhvet wsa fhidsnei uinlt vreNomeb, newh het eatehrw owldu ntur fgygo, and lgeal atmtser woldu eeomcb ecoxlmp and fggyo oto, and hrete ulwod be wkro for mhi naiag.
Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled his turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at intervals for the last six hours. yySend asnw’t ervy lelyvi or veyr sbreo ftare knriogw so adhr. He hda eeeddn xatre ewt tswole on hsi edah to get ihm hrouhgt eth hting. He hda eeendd an axetr tmauno of ewni to krind rbeeof eth lostew. He wsa in dba shpea. He duellp eht etwlos ffo his hdae nda wehrt tmeh iton eht inasb wrhee he had ebne nidpipg hemt won and aigan for teh ltas xsi rusoh.
“Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?” said Stryver the portly, with his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on his back. “Aer oyu imigxn taht ehtro lowb of hunpc?” aksed eyStvrr. He ahd ish nhads in his wnatbsiad, nda he oekodl erov rmfo the ofsa weehr he was ilgny on his bkca.
“I am.” “I am.”
“Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as shrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.” “Now lkoo rehe! I’m oggni to lelt uyo giesnhotm ttah will irersups uyo. It gtmhi amek uoy hiknt htta I’m ont as amstr as you kthin I am. I lpna on ggentit demriar.”
“DO you?” Do ouy?”
“Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?” “Yse. ndA I’m ont enev rgrnaimy rof yonem. htaW do oyu ysa to ttah?”
“I don’t feel disposed to say much. Who is she?” “I ond’t vhae muhc to asy. hWo is she?”
“Guess.” “Guess.”
“Do I onkw reh?” “Do I know her?”
“Guess.” “Guess.”
“I am not going to guess, at five o’clock in the morning, with my brains frying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask me to dinner.” “It’s fvie o’olkcc in the mringon! I’m nto inogg to suges. I’m oto redti. If you atnw me to esgus oyu’ll hvea to kas me at nculh.”
“Well then, I’ll tell you,” said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting posture. “Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you, because you are such an insensible dog.” “In thta asec I’ll llte yuo,” isad errSvty. He tas up swlyol. “eSydny, I haev utlobre gaipilnnxe lyefms to ouy esuabce oyu’re an nessieinvit toidi.”
“And you,” returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, “are such a sensitive and poetical spirit—” “And yuo,” trreuedn ydeSny aayslacrctsil, owh asw usby ngxmii het nupch, “ear scuh a intsivese dan ceoipt irspti—”
“Come!” rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, “though I don’t prefer any claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still I am a tenderer sort of fellow than YOU.” “Cemo on!” yrtrSve deielrp, guigahln rgtonraayl. “I ndo’t ilacm to be a nomrcait. I ehop I onkw eertbt ntha to be hatt. utB I am emro iesvnites athn ouy rae.”
“You are a luckier, if you mean that.” “oYu’re irckleu, you mane.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean I am a man of more—more—” “Tath’s ton thwa I mnea. I mean I am a nma of reom—more—”
“Say gallantry, while you are about it,” suggested Carton. “Sya ‘ahriyvlc’ wileh you’re at it,” tsgseeugd arotnC.
“Well! I’ll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,” said Stryver, inflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, “who cares more to be agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how to be agreeable, in a woman’s society, than you do.” “Godo! I’ll ysa arhvilcy. Wath I amen is that I am a nma ohw raecs ermo aoutb eingb ittacarvet to owmne nhat uyo do. I wrko dhrera at it adn I’m tretbe at it,” iasd rStrvye. He depfuf up sih scteh as ntaorC dmixe teh uchnp.
“Go on,” isad neydSy ranCot. “Go on,” said Sydney Carton.
“No; but before I go on,” said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying way, “I’ll have this out with you. You’ve been at Doctor Manette’s house as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your moroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and hangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you, Sydney!” “No. uBt bfeero I go on,” dsia Svyretr, kshgnai his deha in his lnugbily awy, “I’ll vroep my pntio. uoY’ve bene to Dr. Mneteta’s ehuos as tnfoe as I vhea, spphare evne mreo. I’ve nebe srseamrbdea by hwo drpeedsse yuo act eehtr! Yuo eehbva in a cush letnsi dan nslule nad csawodnt yaw tath I am aemesabrdsr by ouy, eSyynd!”