One might almost fancy that nature had experimented upon Elizabeth before she made up her mind to produce Beatrice, just to get the lines and distances.

The elder sister was to the other what the pale unfinished model of clay is to the polished statue in ivory and gold.
"Oh, my God! my God!" groaned the old man; "look, they have got them on the stretchers.

They are both dead.

Oh, Beatrice! Beatrice! and only this morning I spoke harshly to her." "Don't be so foolish, father," said Elizabeth sharply.

"They may only be insensible." "Ah, ah," he answered; "it does not matter to you, _you_ don't care about your sister.