and even in their voices they have caught each other's tones.

THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL [she has paused from her work and is looking
out of the windows]. Such a lovely sunset, dear.

THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL [she leaves her work and joins her sister.
The two stand holding each other's hands, looking out]. Beautiful!
[A silence. The sun is streaming full into the room.] You--you
don't think, dear, that this room--[she looks round it]--may possibly
be a little TOO sunny to quite suit her?

THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL [not at first understanding]. How, dear,
TOO sun--[She grasps the meaning.] You mean--you think that perhaps
she does that sort of thing?

THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. Well, dear, one is always given to
understand that they do, women--ladies of her profession.

THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. It seems to me so wicked: painting God's
work.

THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. We mustn't judge hardly, dear. Besides,
dear, we don't know yet that she does.

THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. Perhaps she's young, and hasn't commenced
it. I fancy it's only the older ones that do it.

THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. He didn't mention her age, I remember.

THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. No, dear, but I feel she's young.