It was the portrait of one dark but fair, with shoulders of a girlish slenderness all but thin, with eyes of glowing dusk and a half-smile upon her lips.

It was like my hostess in a fashion of line and color, and yet enough unlike her so that I knew it must be the daughter.

The face was a shade narrower of chin, a bit longer, and in some obscure differing of the features there was an effect of more poise, almost of a maturer dignity, so that while I divined it was the face of her daughter, it would seem to have been better planned for the face of her mother.
She followed my eyes to the picture, and her face was still almost stern from her last speech, though it is true that the sternness was a dimpled sternness, for the chin of my hostess was rounded.
"They overwhelmed us, Mr.Blake,--my daughter there, and me, and God alone has counted how many other wretched women.

Her they struck a double blow--they killed the two men she loved.

One was her father, but she flew to the other.