The father, granite; the daughter, fire: Spurlock saw the one and heard the other, his amazement indescribable. “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. The one through which she had come and Gosse had entered behind her. This was good.
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