For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. It tore her apart. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. 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 too had seen. There’s that old gentleman at the end of the table—Bullding his name is. Their small talk continued.
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