“Yes,” she said, “that is what we ought to do. “There isn’t any way you could be worse than John. 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. For a time she promenaded the room. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again.
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