She went to the post-office and drew out and sent off her money to Ramage. “You are late,” she murmured. “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. They are for serving me. . No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky.
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