But they were old enough to start remembering you as mother, and we cannot have that. But a little daughter is one thing and a daughter quite another. I came to beg you instead to do me the honour of becoming my wife. 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 were dying and your baby along with you. I didn’t go out of my way or anything.
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