‘You, Mademoiselle Charvill, are as unlike most of your sex as you can be. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress. ’ For a moment or two there was dead silence in the parlour. ” The wonderful likeness between the two girls was never less noticeable than at that moment. .
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