She was a swan among geese, trying to look plain and dowdy. ‘Then he went stark staring crazy, if you ask me. She fidgeted and looked away. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. ” The maid discreetly withdrew, and Anna stood transfixed, gazing with puzzled frown at her sister. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking.
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