Someone had thoughtfully wrapped a bit of tissue paper round the electric bulb. “Dear husband,” she murmured. Wood, however, was too much excited to attend to the caution. “How is that carmine working?” he asked, with a forced interest. “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. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. ” She pulled a small blue box out of the pocket of her hoodie.
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