Mr. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. "I don't quite understand the application. ‘I know you, Gerald. I beg that you will consider me your friend. 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. Wood's anxiety grew so insupportable, that he seized his hat with the intention of sallying forth in search of them, though he did not know whither to bend his steps, when his departure was arrested by a gentle knock at the door. Wood," observed Jackson, in a slightly-sarcastic tone.
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