"Out of a family album, you said," Angelina reminded her sister. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards. “You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly. They were so nearly alike that the difference would be due to a shaky hand. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force.
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