I, too, want to understand—to walk with my head in the light. You denied it, remembering that I had called myself Anna. My goodness gracious. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. “You would be wise to loosen your purse-strings, Gianfrancesco. You saw him? You have been to Remenham House?’ ‘Remenham House? I wish I’d been only to Remenham House. “Now isn’t this nice!” that lady exclaimed. There was just a minute’s hesitation before they gave her a room. 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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