Ennison with my sister last night. 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. “Forgive my coming in,” she said to Ennison. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect.
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