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. ‘There is no question of a dispute. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. A momentary petrifaction, and terror had lent wings to her feet. . ‘How is this? Proo-den-ss. This she put into the trunk. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. “Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir John,” he said, holding out a Daily Telegraph.
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