“Well, I don’t think you told him as much as that, did you?” Lady Lescelles asked. Lightheaded, she threw up in the courtyard of the Palazzo as servants crowded her in alarm. 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. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. There were moments when she thought of turning upon this man and talking to him. "Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland.
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