Two young ladies appeared before me, one very tall, almost as tall as Miss Ingram
very thin too, with a sallow face and severe mien.
There was something ascetic in her look, which was augmented by the extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress,
a starched linen collar, hair combed away from the temples, and the nun-like ornament of a string of ebony beads and a crucifix.
This I felt sure was Eliza, though I could trace little resemblance to her former self in that elongated and colourless visage.
The other was as certainly Georgiana, but not the Georgiana I remembered -- the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven.
This was a full-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork,
with handsome and regular features, languishing blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair.
The hue of her dress was black too, but its fashion was so different from her sister's -- so much more flowing and becoming
it looked as stylish as the other's looked puritanical.
In each of the sisters there was one trait of the mother -- and only one.
The thin and pallid elder daughter had her parent's Cairngorm eye.
The blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her contour of jaw and chin -- perhaps a little softened,
but still imparting an indescribable hardness to the countenance otherwise so voluptuous and buxom.
Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to welcome me, and both addressed me by the name of “Miss Eyre.”
Eliza's greeting was delivered in a short, abrupt voice, without a smile.
And then she sat down again, fixed her eyes on the fire, and seemed to forget me.