She saw that his poetic susceptibility, the romantic and dramatic elements in him were all alive to his sister's case.

How critically, sharply perceptive he was--or could be--with regard apparently to everybody in the world--save one! Often--as they talked--her heart stirred in this way, far out of sight, like a fluttering and wounded thing.
'It is the strangest madness'-- said Manisty presently--'Many people would say it was only extravagance of imagination unless they knew--what I know.
She told me last night, that she was not one person but two--and the other self was a brother!--not the least like me--who constantly told her what to do, and what not to do.

She calls him quite calmly "my brother John"-- "my heavenly brother." She says that he often does strange things, things that she does not understand; but that he tells her the most wonderful secrets; and that he is a greater poet than any now living.

She says that the first time she perceived him as separate from herself was one day in Venice, when a friend came for her to the hotel.

She went out with the friend, or seemed to go out with her--and then suddenly she perceived that she was lying on her bed, and that the other Alice--had been John! He looks just like herself--but for the eyes.