His smile faded. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. She read for half an hour, then closed the book because Spurlock appeared to have fallen asleep. ” “I don’t believe it,” he answered hoarsely. “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.
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