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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. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it. The room was reeling, or was it that she was going to faint? She recovered herself with a supreme effort.
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