Then she opened her book. Carefully picking her way among the big words, she read bits of her favourite scenes:
"‘The pale and varied blush which mantled the cheek of Amanda at once announced itself to be an involuntary suffusion, and her dress was only remarkable for its simplicity; she wore a plain robe of dimity, and an abbey cap of thin muslin that shaded, without concealing, her face, and gave to it the soft expression of a Madonna; her beautiful hair fell in long ringlets down her back, and curled upon her forehead.
"‘"Good heaven!" cried Mortimer, "how has your idea dwelt upon my mind since last night: if in the morning I was charmed, in the evening I was enraptured."
Annabel paused. An idea had struck her.
"I think Amanda looked like Miss Wistar, don't you?"
"I guess so," said the artist moodily.
"I like Miss Wistar best, don't you?
