Every year her sight grew worse.
She was wearing now a dress of black silk, very badly made, cut to
display her long skinny neck and bony shoulders. She wore her
clothes as though she struggled between a disdain for such vanities
and a desire to appear attractive. Her manner of twisting her
eyelids and wrinkling her nose gave her a peevish expression, but,
behind that, there was a hint of pathos, a half-seen glimpse of a
soul that desired friendship and affection. She was very tall and
there was something masculine in the long angularity of her limbs.
She offered a strange contrast to the broad and ruddy Martin. There
was, however, something in the eyes of each--some sudden surprised
almost visionary flash that came and went that showed them to be the
children of the same father. To Mrs. Warlock they bore no
resemblance whatever. Amy stopped when she saw her brother as though
she had not expected him to be there.
"Well, Martin," she said--then came forward and sat in a chair
opposite her mother.
"Mr. Thurston's coming to suppar," she said.
Martin frowned. "Oh, hang it, what for?" he cried.
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