The girl suppressed a chuckle that would have been inexplicable. She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table. “He sees through it all. “Go on!” she commanded. “Oh, that. This is not the conduct of a jeune demoiselle. It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mailpouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. None at all. 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.
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