And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. 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. Without whisky," went on McClintock, "your irritability is beyond tolerance. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. It was exactly as Sebastian had foreseen.
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