She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. The ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed. Too much blood has been shed already. 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. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. “I may seem unduly— anxious. ’ ‘And now we know also who is the prétendant, Mademoiselle Charvill. Saint Giles's Round-house. ” “Oh!” he said, in a colorless tone, and with his eyes on her face. ’ It seems that I was mistaken.
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