” He smiled bitterly as he handed her from the cab. 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 call this ere crib the Little-Ease, arter the runaway prentices' cells in Guildhall. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at http://pglaf.
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