“How could I, when your sister sings now at the ‘Unusual’ every night and the name ‘Alcide’ flaunts from every placard in London?” “The likeness between us,” she said, “before I began to disfigure myself with rouge and ill-dressed hair, was remarkable. No more scuffling. Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent.
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