His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. “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. He pretended to be unaware of the mishap. And it’s no good pretending there is one when there isn’t. " "Too proud, eh?" rejoined the prize-fighter.
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