Aunt and niece regarded each other silently. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. “Well, I don’t feel like standing it. “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. Let me engage myself.
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