Winifred's face had a thoroughly amiable look. A live man. “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. She had nothing to say for herself. He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image. Manning, with a baffling smile. Since then he has persistently annoyed me. Stanley regarded him through his glasses with something approaching animosity. Only you seem to me since the time when I knew you in Paris to have changed—to have changed in some subtle manner which I find at times utterly bewildering.
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