He remembered that he had heard stories about the wonderful likeness between these two sisters, one of whom was an artist and a recluse, whilst the other had attached herself to a very gay and a very brilliant little coterie of pleasure-seekers. “It is unimportant,” she said. It is not so. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this.
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