She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. "In this pit," he added, pointing to the chasm below, "your brother is buried. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. “Don’t you get it, Lucy? I’ve always thought he was an idiot. “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. Ann Veronica paused before she answered.
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