They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. He waved a hand toward the sea. Anna, who had thrown aside her sealskin coat, wore a tight-fitting walking dress of some dark shade. And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter to us.
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