But here the resemblance stopped. It may not be just, it may not be fair, but things are so. 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. The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of defence, with the child in his arms. Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner.
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