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. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand.
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