“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit. Drummond nodded. 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. She sensed he might try and wane on her doorstep. The chance had gone. The Storm VII. Deserted by his older companion in iniquity, and instigator to crime, he did not know what might become of him; nor, as we have observed, was the sad spectacle he had just witnessed, without effect. ’ ‘And she’d be right,’ Martha said severely.
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