"Do you submit?" interrogated Wild. But the great point was still unaccomplished. 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. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Living’s just material. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment.
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