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which I half believe you do-go your ways as soon as possible, and
let me go mine. I am busy. I am an official.” “My English brother
Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, casting up her tearfraught eyes,
“that had the makings in him of one of the best and greatest of men
in his native country, an official among foreigners, and such
foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in
his--” “I said so!” cried her brother, interrupting. “I knew it. You
want to be the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my
own sister. Just as I am getting on!”

“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross.
“Far rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I
have ever loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate
word to me, and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged
between us, and I will detain you no longer.” 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!

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:
“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John
Solomon, or Solomon John?” The official turned towards him with
sudden distrust. He had not previously uttered a word.

“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.”
“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.” “No?” “No. But
I’ll swear it was a name of two syllables.” “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?” “Barsad,” said another
voice, striking in.

“That’s the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry.
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.
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