” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. “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. “I have been very selfish,” she declared. He had never wanted daughters.
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