It was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of Sharples that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance to the round-house. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw. “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. "I am only fit for such as him.
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