His face warm, Captain Roding glared them into silence, and firmly marched his captive off down Piccadilly, heading for Stratton Street where the town house of the Alderley family was situated. “I mean it. It became a sort of duel at last between them, and all the others sat and listened—every one, that is, except the Alderman, who had got the blond young man into a corner by the green-stained dresser with the aluminum things, and was sitting with his back to every one else, holding one hand over his mouth for greater privacy, and telling him, with an accent of confidential admission, in whispers of the chronic struggle between the natural modesty and general inoffensiveness of the Borough Council and the social evil in Marylebone. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. “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. No police officers or lurking storms were anywhere in sight. Including the wings, it presented a frontage of five hundred and forty feet. I even offered him back the half interest he had sold to me. I got myself locked up to cool off.
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