His voice had broken. “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. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. ’ She flounced back to stare out of the window again. But I may yet live to thwart them.
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