"A Tale of Two Cities"
by Charles Dickens

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     "French, eh?" repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him at all, though he echoed his word. "Well; he may be."

     "Is, I assure you," said the spy; "though it's not important."

     "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."

     "I think not. I am sure not. It can't be," said the spy.

 

     "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?"

     "Provincial," said the spy.

     "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."

 
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