It was very difficult to keep her attention fixed upon the "Prelude." Was it Susan Warrington tapping?
She forced herself, however, to read to the end of the book, when she placed a mark between the pages, sighed contentedly, and then turned out the light.
Very different was the room through the wall, though as like in shape as one egg-box is like another.

As Miss Allan read her book, Susan Warrington was brushing her hair.

Ages have consecrated this hour, and the most majestic of all domestic actions, to talk of love between women; but Miss Warrington being alone could not talk; she could only look with extreme solicitude at her own face in the glass.

She turned her head from side to side, tossing heavy locks now this way now that; and then withdrew a pace or two, and considered herself seriously.
"I'm nice-looking," she determined.

"Not pretty--possibly," she drew herself up a little.