She turned off the light and approached the window. “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. ‘Unless he is himself a man of substance. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. Try your luck with Jarvis Remenham—if you will. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English. She came to her one day and pulled on her apron.
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