These daughters! He gnawed his pen and reflected, tore the sheet up, and began again. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. You needn’t be in any doubt about it. Her aunt went out of the room with dignity and a rustle, and up-stairs to the fastness of her own room. It was he who saw them first coming down the room—Annabel in a wonderful white satin gown in front, and Sir John stiff, unbending, disapproving, bringing up the rear.
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