“I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. They were sitting alone, Lucy. 82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. “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. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart. You understand me, Charcoal.
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