She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. 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. ‘I do not steal,’ declared the lady hotly. It was neither good nor bad. "That's usual.
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