It was an impulse. He went on. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. 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. ‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply. It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning. "When it thunders, the thief becomes honest," muttered Wood. ‘Are you going to come quietly, mademoiselle?’ he demanded with grim determination. "Wretch!" she cried, "you shall not force me to your hateful purpose.
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