If she felt rebellious scorn for the tall disappointment who still bore and always would bear the honoured name of Tresslyn she gave no sign: if the slightest resentment existed in her soul toward the daughter who was no longer as wax in her hands, she hid the fact securely behind a splendid mask of unconcern.

As for the old man upstairs she had but a single thought: an insistent one it was, however, and based itself upon her own dread of the thing that was killing him.
George Tresslyn, white-faced and awed, sat like a graven image, looking at the floor.

He was not there because he wanted to be, but because a rather praiseworthy allegiance to Anne had mastered his repugnance.

Somewhere in his benumbed intelligence flickered a spark of light which revealed to him his responsibility as the head of the family.

Anne was his sister.