She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. ‘Never. ’ ‘It is so in a convent, you see,’ she explained airily. She walked across to this apartment and, opening the door a little wider, discovered a press section of the movement at work. 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. I was born on an island in the South Seas. He pressed the bloody wrist into her mouth, and she though she could not feel it or 72 control it, she knew she was being made to swallow.
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