There were no evidences of any struggle, no overturned chairs or disarranged furniture. ‘Leonardo again,’ he growled. If I had never met anything of you at all but a scrap of your skin binding a book, Ann Veronica, I know I would have kept that somewhere near to me. 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. It was all highly intriguing. Your family has not sullied itself by dabbling in it, at least not 173 from what I know, so now is not the time to begin. ‘You know?’ ‘Come, come, Melusine.
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