It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. ’ ‘How exciting. I’ll give you, say, thirty-five guineas a week clear of expenses, and half of anything you earn above the two turns a night. “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. We've made a pretty penny by him—sixty guineas this blessed day. Just go about with him. It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination.
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