“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. "And someday let him care for me!" She sprang up, alarmed. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window. “Too greasy for me. They fight over money all of the time. ‘You said—who?’ ‘Remenham.
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