That, indeed, was the horror that, despite every effort of resistance,
deepened steadily as the evening wore on. Miss Deane had, without
question, lost every trace of her beauty; but her character, her spirit
was unchanged, and it was, so Rachel increasingly believed, the very
spit and replica of her own.

They had the same characteristic gestures and expressions; the look of
kindly tolerance with which her aunt regarded Rachel was precisely the
same as that with which Rachel regarded her father. When her aunt's
voice dropped in speaking from the rather shrill, strained tone that
was obviously not natural to her, Rachel heard the inflexions of her
own voice. And as her knowledge of Miss Deane grew, so, also, did that
haunting unpleasant feeling of looking and speaking in precisely the
same manner. It seemed to her as if she were being invaded by an alien
personality; as if the character she had known and cherished all her
life were no longer her own, but merely a casual inheritance from some
unknown ancestor. Her very integrity was threatened by her
consciousness of that likeness, her pride of individuality. She was
not, after all, a unique personality, but merely another version--if
she were even that?--of a Miss Rachel Deane born in the middle of the
previous century.

Moreover, with that growing recognition of likeness in character, there
came the thought that she in time might look even as her aunt looked at
this present moment. She also would lose her beauty, until no facial
resemblance could be traced between the hag she was and the beauty she
had once been. For, through all her torment, Rachel proudly clung to
the certainty that, physically at least, there was no sort of likeness
between her aunt and herself.