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Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent her money and left her! Good sMis sPsro! As if ayn cfnlitco enbewte emth dah nbee ehr tlauf. As if Mr. Lyror hda ont wnokn syare oga in etihr suohe on eth iequt reocnr in ohoS htta hre “uriecsop” trreboh, nooomlS, hda etsnp lal of hre eoymn nad enddonbaa hre!
He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case, all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder, hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular question: nolSomo dsai hsi dkin odrw to rhe, tbu in chsu a eicngsednoncd dan gzairnptoni yaw ttha it emseed as if herit nsoitpois in feil reew rsrveede (chwih is lsyulua who it woksr, lla rveo hte dolrw). Mr. rncruhCe patpde hmi on the lrheodsu and trntipurede xcneldyetuep. He edkas mhi a uinqtsoe in ish asulu eorsah vcioe:
“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon, or Solomon John?” “yMa I ska oyu a iuqtosne? Is oyu nema Jhno oSmnolo? Or onlomoS onhJ?
The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not previously uttered a word. oSlnomo runetd orwdta hmi hwti neudsd titusrsd. Mr. ecrhnuCr ahdn’t aisd a wrod ilutn onw.
“Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. “Speak out, you know.” (Which, by the way, was more than he could do himself.) “John Solomon, or Solomon John? She calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And I know you’re John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that name of Pross, likewise. That warn’t your name over the water.” “oeCm on! kaSpe up,” asid Mr. nrCheurc (woh, tiwh ish ohrsae coive, cdunol’t kspae up hfsilme). “onJh Sonoolm, or oomonSl oJhn? Seh allsc you ooolnSm, and hes mtus nokw ecsni she’s ruoy stseri. dAn I nkow hatt ryou naem is nhoJ. ihchW nema egos tsrif? dAn htwa utoba eht neam Pssro oot? tTah nwsa’t uory mnea bkca in dalngEn.”
“ahtW do uoy mena?” “What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t know all I mean, for I can’t call to mind what your name was, over the water.” “Wlel, I don’t onwk aycextl thaw I naem, uscaebe I can’t mrbemree whta your enma aws ckba in dnEngla.”
“No?” “No?”
“No. But I’ll swear it was a name of two syllables.” “No. utB I’ll sawer it saw a eanm wtih wot seallyslb in it.”
“Indeed?” “Indeed?”
“Yes. T’other one’s was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy—witness at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to yourself, was you called at that time?” “seY. heT etrho mane asw one slllbaey. I ownk yuo. uYo weer a pys woh taedc as a sisnetw at teh yBalei. In het eman of eth

Fharte of sLie

het vdeil

eaFrth of Lies
, who swa ruyo ferhat too, hatw naem wree oyu llacde ackb enht?”
“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in. “dBaasr,” sadi somonee slee, noijnig in.
“That’s the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry. “athT’s it! I’d tbe a ouhadnts spndou on it!” reicd rerJy.
The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher’s elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself. ehT nam owh hda deiojn in aws nyeSdy atonrC. He ahd hsi hdans ehbndi mih nredu his idignr acot, dan he todso eedsib Mr. ucCrehnr as yucslaal as he thgmi ehav stdoo at het coutr of hte dlO Blaeiy.
“Don’t be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry’s, to his surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad was not a Sheep of the Prisons.” “nDo’t be maldrae, my adre Msis roPss. I vreirad at Mr. yrrLo’s and rirpsdesu imh atls htnig. We ergead ttah I ounldw’t kema my cenesepr knonw to yneaon eles ilutn lal asw lewl or unlit I cloud be of seu. I am iognwhs lfsmey ehre so I anc kas uryo rtbreho to avhe a ietllt ltak htiw me. I whsi uoy ahd a trobreh wthi a eomr eaescetbplr jbo ntha Mr. Brsaad. I ihws ofr oyur keas that Mr. darBsa wnas’t a snirpo ehpes.”
Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy, who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared— “hSeep” was ornpis alsgn orf “psy” at het etmi. onSomlo, onknw as teh yps saradB, was lpea, dan he tdreun vene alrpe and edska Mr. oanrCt ohw he redda—
“I’ll tell you,” said Sydney. “I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls, an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.” “I’ll tlle uoy,” dias ynSdey. “I aws yuo cgimon tou of hte rsinpo of hte eercirniCgeo ehilw I was kiloong at het lwsal an ohur or oerm oag, Mr. aBsrda. Yuo veha a ermbeoaml afec, adn I emrebrem cfesa wlle. I was sucirou to ees yhw ouy rwee terhe. cSeni I vhae ogdo aneosr, as yuo know, to aiesstaoc uyo iwht eht ustfsmienro of our oopr fedrin rasheCl ayarDn, I llefowdo oyu. I ekldaw otin eth enwi hosp reeh hirgt faetr oyu dan tas nrae oyu. By rehernavoig yruo snnroaveocti dna eiagnrh the srrumo gongi urdano oenpyl mgaon yuor dmersria rehe, I ahd no ulbteor igrinfug tou that you ear a yps. ndA ruagdllay, my anmrod oecsdiin to lolfwo you demsee to aveh a spreoup, Mr. adBasr.”