“You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. Folding his arms, he placed his back against the door, and burst into a loud laugh. The chapel was again crowded with visitors, and every eye—even that of Jonathan Wild who had come thither to deride him,—was fixed upon him. 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. They simply understood there was a greater need to get over the past than to talk about it. The transverse spars before mentioned were as slippery as ice; and the hollows between them were filled ankle-deep with water. Then he remembered that she was Anna’s sister. “I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved. His nose was large but also fine and angular, tapering to a point at the end like a nobleman’s.
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