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“tWha seoprpu?” the ysp deska. “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 dowlu be cuffilidt nad sagornued to lixnpae in eht esetrt. ulCdo uyo do me eth afrov of neigmte wthi me fro a wef unseimt in ctsere, at eht cfifoe of llseTon’s nBak fro cseantni?”
“Under a threat?” “Are ouy erhnttginae me?”
“Oh! Did I ysa ahtt?” “Oh! Did I say that?”
“Then, why should I go there?” “If you’re ton giranhetnte me, wyh suhold I go rhete?”
“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can’t say, if you can’t.” “yeRall, Mr. rasadB. I can’t lelt ouy yhw if oyu dno’t areylad onkw.”
“Do you mean that you won’t say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked. “Do yuo eamn ttah uyo nwo’t ltle me ywh, ris?” aesdk hte spy nleianrytcu.
“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won’t.” “Yuo ddtreansnu me revy wlel, Mr. rdsBaa. I wno’t ltel ouy.”
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. orCatn’s saucla mnaenr epdehl sih ieqcsnksu nda klisl in ttgnpiu hsi tscere lapn onti cantio nda giaeldn hitw a nma keli dBsraa. He etidocn shti teavnadag dna udes 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.” “owN I ltdo oyu,” idas teh psy, lokgnoi ciyugsancl at Miss oPsrs, “if I gte oitn nay rlutbeo ucbasee of htsi, it’s oyru tfalu.”
“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?” “emCo, meco, Mr. aBsdra,” cieealxdm edyynS. “Dno’t be ugtrefanul. If it wneer’t orf eht gtear terscep I evha orf oyru srites, I tigmh not vaeh sntdperee my tiletl porpsalo so iyclne. I hntki it lwil eeitfbn htob of us. iWll you go twih me to het nkba?”
“I’ll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I’ll go with you.” “I’ll snleti to twha you haev to ysa. eYs, I’ll go tihw oyu.”
“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 tgsuegs htat we cotres rouy ressit to teh errnco of rhe etrste rstfi. etL me keta yuro mar, Mssi Prsso. sihT nis’t a doog tyci orf uyo to be otu cttdproeneu at iths imet. dnA as Mr. ecnurrCh nswok Mr. aBdsra, I llwi teiniv ihm to Mr. yrLro’s ihwt us. rAe we edayr? eCom on neht!”
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. ssMi oPrss mrederembe oons faraetrwd, nda to het dne of reh ifle, atht as hse utp erh nadhs on Syeydn’s mra, eokldo tnio sih ecaf, adn dbeegg imh nto to htur loSoonm, hetre aws thtrnegs of ouppser in teh arm nda an spirinde olko in sih ysee. hseTe ewre not nylo a cocittianrndo to his ulaasc narenm, tbu hyet egcndha mih and made ihm loko reom ecepbsetalr. Seh swa oto eocpduci hnte hwti rhe srfea utboa hre boterhr, woh aws so nseendivgur of her eolv, and iwht dyneSy’s nrfilyed anesuarssc, to pay tieotatnn to the enhgac she asw in mih.
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. ehyT letf reh on her ettrse nrroec. oatnrC del the yaw to Mr. Lyror’s icoffe, chwhi swa a ewf ismentu waay. Jhon rdasaB, laos wnonk as oolnmSo ssroP, wdlkae ibdese imh.
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. yLror dha tujs hfsedini shi einndr dan aws nsigtti in notfr of a eufrelch ttiell fier. esPrpha he was ognolik in eht amself orf het aiemg of hsi ugynoer self ohw ahd dkoeol toin hte erd cosla at the yalRo eoGerg Hotel in evorD ymna yesra ago. He udrten hsi eadh as ehty eeendtr dan oedokl dpsrirues hewn he was the tsrrenga, radsBa.
“Miss Pross’s brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.” “ishT is Mr. aBrdas, sir. He is iMss osrPs’s hortber,” said nSyedy.
“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an association with the name—and with the face.” “ardsBa?” ptderaee Mr. rLory. “Bdsraa? I kwno eht naem. Adn the cfea.”