Ann Chester, Mr. Pett's niece, looked her best when she smiled.
Although her hair was the most obviously striking feature of her
appearance, her mouth was really the most individual thing about
her. It was a mouth that suggested adventurous possibilities. In
repose, it had a look of having just finished saying something
humorous, a kind of demure appreciation of itself. When it
smiled, a row of white teeth flashed out: or, if the lips did not
part, a dimple appeared on the right cheek, giving the whole face
an air of mischievous geniality. It was an enterprising,
swashbuckling sort of mouth, the mouth of one who would lead
forlorn hopes with a jest or plot whimsically lawless
conspiracies against convention. In its corners and in the firm
line of the chin beneath it there lurked, too, more than a hint
of imperiousness. A physiognomist would have gathered, correctly,
that Ann Chester liked having her own way and was accustomed to
get it.

"Hello, uncle Peter," she said. "What's the trouble?"

"Am I interrupting you, Ann?"

"Not a bit. I'm only copying out a story for aunt Nesta. I
promised her I would. Would you like to hear some of it?"

Mr. Pett said he would not.

"You're missing a good thing," said Ann, turning the pages. "I'm
all worked up over it. It's called 'At Dead of Night,' and it's
full of crime and everything. You would never think aunt Nesta