“If only I could afford another!” she thought regretfully. Taking the opposite course from that which he had hitherto pursued when it has been necessary to attend him in his visits to the lower part of his premises, he struck into a narrow passage on the right, which he tracked till he came to a small door, like the approach to a vault. 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 are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. There was a time, long, long ago, when the tears would have rushed to my eyes unbidden at the bare mention of generosity like yours, Mr. But all this business has driven it clean out of my head. She had never expected John capable of saying such things, of thinking such macabre ideas.
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