“No you don’t!” said Ann Veronica, and walked out at a brisk and businesslike pace toward the house. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. She read the policeman’s rueful glance when she caught his refection in his rearview mirror. “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. A faint buzz above the ceiling witnessed that petrography, too, was active. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen.
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