But—It’s just this: who was to be hurt?” “I wish no one had to be hurt,” said Ann Veronica. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. 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. The Bitchster strikes again. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. It’s a damned hard thing to do. Only last night she saw me, and there was horror in her eyes.
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