Anna glanced into her sister’s face, and rose to her feet. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. “It’s like the Picture and the Bust. I tried to have it out with him, but he wouldn’t have it out. She opened this and scrambled out—a thing she had not done for five long years of adolescence— upon the leaded space above the built-out bath-room on the first floor. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. “So Brendon and I,” he said, “have been troubled with the same fears. “Do you happen to know whether she is supposed to be here?” “Very likely indeed,” Captain Fred Meddoes answered, lighting a cigarette. The audience clapped more heartily. Yes, of course. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. ‘Come, mademoiselle, it is of no use to conceal anything from me, you know.
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