He continued thoughtfully. “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 remember that you saw us at the Savoy a few evenings ago?” “Yes. “I can’t conceive what you want. But you! Why the devil did you marry her? That's the thing that confounds me. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. “You seem to have come from Miss Pellissier’s rooms. .
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