He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. She wanted to cry out upon herself for the uttermost fool in existence. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. 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. That night, she hunted the alleyways of the old town. Seeing Capes from day to day made a bright eventfulness that hampered her in the course she had resolved to follow. ‘You are jealous!’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply.
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