"Release your prisoner," continued Wood, "or the window is opened. 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. She could not analyse what was stirring in her: the thought of losing the doll, the dog, and the cat. She never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism.
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