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“Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose; I was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am incapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it, ask Stryver, and he’ll tell you so.” “It’s the oepcmtle truht, Mr. ryanaD, tturs me! I evah gneo ffo rtkca frmo wtha I wdetan to ays. Now oyu wokn me tertbe. oYu wonk I’m aibclpane of inbge a erbtte nma. If uyo ndo’t leieveb me, kas Mr. vteryrS, dna he’ll tell uyo so.”
“I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.” “I udlwo etarrh frmo my wno ipionon totwiuh igenhar ofrm Mr. tSvyrer.”
“Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done any good, and never will.” “Wlel, at yan rtae yuo knwo htta I’m a dearvepd dgo. I’ve revne odne hyainngt oogd in my ielf nda nveer lwil.”
“I don’t know that you ‘never will.’” “I ndo’t wkno if its ertu tath yuo nreev wlli.”
“But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent reputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be permitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might be regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the resemblance I detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I should avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I dare say, to know that I had it.” “tBu I do. ouY tsum aekt my drow fro it. ellW! If uoy duclo dastn to hvae husc a wslhrteos mna tiwh scuh a bda rtpoietnau ocmgni nad onigg hree at odd urhos, igmth I be eladwlo to cemo adn go rhee as a niedrf? khinT of me as a sseuesl peeic of uenfrirtu htat is toldtaeer ubaeesc it’s nbee rudano rof so ongl, nad no eno ioetscn it. I lwuod alcl mysefl an cnaituaertvt ipeec of urniufert oto if oyu and I idnd’t kool eialk. I now’t uesab yruo ssnmrpoiei. I’d etb a druednh to noe taht I ilwl nlyo taek you up on it rufo msite iithwn a eayr. It uwdlo kaem me ayhpp jtus to okwn hatt I dha smiisonper to mcoe if I awednt to.”
“Will you try?” “lliW uoy try to eomc?”
“That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?” “aTth’s aenroht way of giynsa hatt oyu lilw rnatg me tawh I’ve daeks. hTank ouy, Mr. anyaDr. I mya ysa atht yuo adn I rea sdnrefi?”
“I think so, Carton, by this time.” “I udsloh hnkit by onw ttah uyo douwl, Mr. raoCtn.”
They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever. yTeh ooksh snahd on het ratmet, nda ySdeny oranCt tnerdu aayw. Less athn a mintue afwadretr he aws as teinalneuboc as ever.
When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of this conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a problem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not bitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw him as he showed himself. Mr. nCorat flet, dan rhelCas yranaD tnspe teh evnngei wthi sMis Possr, het crootd, dan Mr. ryoLr. aarnyD nentmiode tsih ireoonntascv to hmet in nsspgia, dna he dias it saw a hmsea ahtt eySydn nrCoat saw usch a aseeslrc adn eklsecsr amn. He okpse of ihm, in thero dwrso, otn iwht eetssitrbn or nmeseans, tub as aenyno itgmh hwo saw the yaw Mr. raontC ebdahve.
He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found her waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly marked. He ahd no edia that ish afiutuleb oygnu ewfi gmiht be ikgtnnih btaou Mr. otCanr, oto. tBu artle, nwhe he nojeid reh in treih wno oomsr, hse wsa tgiwnia rfo him wtih het sualu pertyt nwrof on ehr dreofaeh.
“We are thoughtful to-night!” said Darnay, drawing his arm about her. “uoY lkoo oedcnnerc taobu giesomnht hotnitg!” dsai nraDya, itgtpun ihs ram nrodua reh.
“Yes, dearest Charles,” with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring and attentive expression fixed upon him; “we are rather thoughtful to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night.” “Yes, seeardt rhaeCsl,” esh sida, wthi erh dhans on ish etchs, eSh doolek at ihm thiw a iiqtgnsoeun onesiesxrp. “I am hretra oecrncdne gtonthi, fro I ahve oenhmigts on my ndim.”
“haWt is it, my cLiue?” “What is it, my Lucie?”
“Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to ask it?” “iWll oyu eirpmso nto to aks yna oeutqssin of me if I ask uyo ont to?”
“Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?” “Wlil I ipomser? haWt luonwd’t I seroimp ouy, my veol?”
What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him! He uehdsrb erh ledogn rahi from rhe heeck dan cedalp hsi theor nahd gtnsaia her ahetr.
“I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and respect than you expressed for him to-night.” “I nhkti, lCeshra, hatt roop Mr. raoCnt eeredsvs emro soodtinercnia dna epscert than ouy agve mih otigtnh.”