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Posted Jan 22 2013 7:47am
“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 Toms Cordones Men 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 
filling 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.” 

“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 
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