"It must be awfully odd, Guy," he said at last, after a good hard
stare, "to lead such a queer sort of duplicate life as Cyril and
you do! Just fancy being the counterfoil to some other man's cheque!
Just fancy being bound to do, and think, and speak, and wish as he
does! Just fancy having to get a toothache, in the very same tooth
and on the very same day! Just fancy having to consult the identical
dentist that he consults simultaneously! It'd drive ME mad. Why,
it's clean rideeklous!"
Guy Waring looked up hastily from the telegraph form he was already
filling in, and answered, with some warmth--
"No, no; not quite so. It isn't like that. You mistake the situation.
We're both cheques equally, and neither is a counterfoil. Cyril
and I depend for our characters, as everybody else does, upon our
father and mother and our remoter progenitors. Only being twins,
and twins cast in very much the same sort of mould, we're naturally
the product of the same two parents, at the same precise point in
their joint life history; and therefore we're practically all but
identical."
As he rose from his desk, with the telegram in his hand, the porter
appeared at the door with letters. Guy seized them at once, with
some little impatience.
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