"Tom! Hey, Tom!" The Chinese cook thrust his head into the dining room. ‘Didn’t mean to say that. I'd have got something nice. 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. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. ” “Then perhaps,” she answered, with a new coldness in her tone, “perhaps I really do not care. ” She looked at him with fluttering eyelids—sweetly grateful.
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