After quarter of an hour, she followed. After I took the bills it was too late to turn back. She softened her tone and scrambled for the right words. A post-chaise seen in the road first alarmed us. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. The unexpected twist—his disclosure to McClintock—had given Spurlock but temporary relief. “Mary!” He whispered loudly. 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. And don’t talk until we’re well out of earshot.
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