She talks of things in the present with inflections of voice that are in sharp contrast to the sentiments she utters. The while the expression of her face is inscrutable. Taken by and large, she is an inscrutable person. I wonder while I listen, does she herself believe these things?--or is she talking to amuse herself? But perforce I feel a vein of truth in each thing that she says. I look hard at her to discover signs of irony or insincerity--but I can but feel a vein of rancorous truth, or a vein of friendly truth, or a vein of ancient truth, or curious. Then, as she is talking and in the same moment I am wondering, I consider: What matters it whether or not any of it is true, or whether or not she believes it, or whether or not I can understand it--since _she_ is saying it. Is she not an exquisite person telling me these things in her exquisite voice? She carries all before her in the world. For she and I make up a small world. If she be not brilliant in her talking, then that is because that set of sentences would be ruined by brilliancy. If she be not profound in her discoursing, then that is because her fancy at the time dwells in the light fantastic and would be ruined by profoundness. If she be not logical, that is because she is exquisite, which is quite beyond logic. Nevertheless, when she says what is simple and plain and stupid the look of her face is more than all the look of one saying brilliant things. And when she touches lightly upon one thin fancy and another the look of her lily face is above all things profound. And when her mood and its expression are most reckless of logic the look of her face is the model of one giving out platitudes in all open candor and reasonableness. I have been led by these looks of her face to see some varying visions of my friend Annabel Lee. One is a vision of her as a capable, elderly maiden aunt, one who stands ready in sickness and in health to do for me, and cooks little meat pies for me, and tells me when I’m spending too much money, and what to do for a cold. One is a vision of her as a playful child-companion who is with me in all my summer days, and shares all her quaint thoughts with me, and asks me countless questions and accepts my dictum as gospel. One is a vision of her as a sister--one of that kind who has the best of all things in life whilst I must take the poor things; one of the kind that is to be married to a count from over the seas, and I must work and hurry to get her frocks ready for the wedding--and then go back to live in a small, dead village all the days of my life. One is a vision of her as the quiet martyr-sister who comes at my call and retires at my bidding--and in this part my friend Annabel Lee walks with exceeding beauty. One is a vision of her as a strong elderly friend who stands between me and all icy blasts, who lays out my daily life, who quiets my foolish excitement with her calmness and wisdom.