But really it is much more than that. Piano wire, stained with black rust from the horrible deeds she had committed. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. “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 are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. The young lady—if she had come in here at all—had vanished. “You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance. The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face.
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