“Go on!” “You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an Englishman’s. The wings stopped. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. “If only Sir John were not Sir John I would ask you to come and have some supper. I've a couple of kinchens in yonder rattler, whom I wish to place under old Sharples's care. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned.
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