One realized indeed then where the differences lay; the tender curves about Anna’s mouth transformed into hard sharp lines in Annabel’s, the eyes of one, truthful and frank, the other’s more beautiful but with less expression—windows lit with dazzling light, but through which one saw—nothing. Now what? There was an interest, or why ask him who they were. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright. Nor, indeed, did she want to refuse. He refused to believe that Anna was not ‘Alcide.
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