When she spoke or smiled Anne's mole seemed literally to catch up her lip against its will, on purpose to show the small white teeth below.

Majendie loved Anne's mole.

It was that one charming and emphatic fault in her face, he said, that made it human.
But Anne was ashamed of it.
She surveyed her own reflection in the glass sadly, and sadly went through the practised, mechanical motions of her dressing; smoothing the back of her irreproachable coat, arranging her delicate laces with a deftness no indifference could impair.

Yesterday she had had delight in that new garment and in her own appearance.

She knew that Majendie admired her for her distinction and refinement.