That was the true marvel of it. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. 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. Daughters were not like sons.
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