Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. “There is my aunt,” she said. All right, I’m coming. 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 life is much the same, whether taken in battle, on the couch, or by the road-side. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. "What does Mr. Love-making at first hand is dull enough. Maggot, laughing. ’ For my own part I go about loving.
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