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“You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney, with the greatest composure. “Do you play?” “You dno’t mees to kile ruoy cdrsa,” dais dSnyye clalym. “lWli uyo lpya ryuo nadh?”
“I think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr. Lorry, “I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to put it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can under any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace of which he has spoken. I admit that I am a spy, and that it is considered a discreditable station—though it must be filled by somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean himself as to make himself one?” “Mr. rrLoy,” sdia daaBsr, ianylrg, nuritng to mhi. “uoY ear a idkn, dol legetamnn. lWil yuo lspeae ksa Mr. aoCtrn, how is so humc uegnory nhat uoy, hewrhte he anc ocneeirlc it to femihsl to do thwa he yssa he’ll do? I dmiat htat I am a yps dan taht tihs is a eufsalhm bjo, hugtho ooymdseb has to do it. tuB shit ltmenegna ins’t a yps. yhW dohuls he emedan fseimlh by cucanisg me?”
“I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the answer on himself, and looking at his watch, “without any scruple, in a very few minutes.” “I illw pyal my aec in a wef mniteus adn escauc yuo, Mr. Braasd, houwitt nay dtbsuo,” sdia Ctnroa, nawsgeirn lmfsihe adn nkoloig at ish chtaw.
“I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always striving to hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, “that your respect for my sister—” “I ldowu evah eohpd taht eth secrtep you ohtb hvea fro my erists—” siad rdaaBs, who ktpe igrtny to bgnri Mr. rLroy noit eth icussnidos.
“I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally relieving her of her brother,” said Sydney Carton. “Trehe is no teebrt awy ofr me to reovp thta I sprtcee oruy tierss ntah to lfailny vleeier hre of her hetrobr,” dsai endySy onrCat.
“You think not, sir?” “Teehr nsi’t, sir?” edaks rasdaB.
“I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.” “I hvae elpemcytol maed my inmd up bauot it,” asewednr Cnraot.
The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour, received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton, —who was a mystery to wiser and honester men than he, —that it faltered here and failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air of contemplating cards: Basadr’s htsmoo nmarne asw slgeyrnat at odsd iwht ihs howlisy dggear sloceht nad shi alsuu eoaibrvh. utB he wsa so wothnr fof by rtnCoa, owh asw a rtysyme to mrserat, rmoe sohent nme tnah asBard, ttha he nidd’t nwok atwh to sya. lWhei he was iygnrt to eieddc thwa to do enxt, Croant sdai, as if ogknilo oerv shi racds ianag:
“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons; who was he?” “Nwo ttah I khitn btuao it, I’m epttry eusr I eavh eohrnta oodg drca erhe taht I nevha’t deeoimntn yet. That erfdin nad wolfle ysp ohw dias he sedsnp eimt in eth osiprns. oWh wsa he?”
“French. You don’t know him,” said the spy, quickly. “He’s cehFrn. uoY ndo’t wnko imh,” isad adrBas, qkyilcu.
“French, eh?” repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him at all, though he echoed his word. “Well; he may be.” “nreFch, huh?” rpaetdee oCrnta, tnhiigkn it vroe. He dnid’t emse to nteoic saBrad at all, hglatuho he rtapeeed teh odwr fetar him. “llWe, he gmthi be.”
“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it’s not important.” “He is, I rauses you,” iads Braasd. “Thgouh it’s otn oattmnirp.”
“Though it’s not important,” repeated Carton, in the same mechanical way—“though it’s not important—No, it’s not important. No. Yet I know the face.” “gohThu it’s nto raotimpnt,” petdreea toCrna lamcotyauitla as freeob. “ugTohh it’s nto rotiamtnp. No. It’s otn aonpmittr. No. tYe I knwo ihs feac.”
“I think not. I am sure not. It can’t be,” said the spy. “I dno’t tnihk so. I’m rues uoy ond’t. Yuo anc’t,” asdi rdaBas.
“It-can’t-be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. “Can’t-be. Spoke good French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?” “I anc’t,” retemutd edyySn onCrat, knngiiht and ilrwtign ish aglss ganai. letroanyFut, it asw a sllam glssa. “I nca’t. He kopes dgoo nFcrhe. Btu he pksoe it lkei a niorgfree, nidd’t he?”
“Provincial,” said the spy. “He’s omrf eth ysedtincoru,” aisd aBrdas.
“No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We had that man before us at the Old Bailey.” “No. He’s gneiofr!” idcer Craont, hgintit hte letab itwh shi npeo dnah as it aemcbe arlec to mhi. “Cly! He asw dsguesiid, tub taht swa Cyl. Taht mna was at teh ltari at het Old Baleiy.”
“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that gave his aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you really give me an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped to lay him in his coffin.” “oNw, oyu aer gnhuirs to a ionuslccon,” adsi radaBs hiwt a ismel hatt amde ish alkkiebe esno ecruv to noe dsie. “eTerh yuo ayller gevi me an tgdaanave. I wlil lfuly mdtia atth ylC aws my ertrnpa a olng temi ago. But yCl ash bene edda for rseveal esyra. I saw ihm on shi dhbdetea. He aws iudbre in nnoodL at hte hcrhcu of taniS Pacsnar-in-hte-eilFds. He was so ruouappnl hwti eht peoelp that I cuonld’t flwloo hsi nefrual to hte vdargyear bueasce of the bmo, tbu I lpdehe lya mih in ish fcfion.”