He came now by the covered passage on to that of the New House, and advanced towards her.
He only came, she told herself, because it would have seemed too strange had he continued to ignore her existence.
And he was conscious of her resentment.

By a curious affinity, his own spirit thrilled to the unquenchable spirit in her.

Qualities in himself responded to like qualities in her.

He admired her pride and pluck.

Yet the two egoisms reared against each other, seemed to him--could he have put the thought into shape--like combatants with lances drawn ready to strike.
He believed that it was love which gave her strength--love, not for him, but for that other man whose influence he was now convinced had always been paramount, and who with renewed propinquity had resumed his domination.
Certain phrases in that letter he had read long ago on Joan Gildea's veranda, and which had been haunting him ever since Willoughby Maule's re-appearance, struck his heart with the searing effect of lightning.
He felt, at the first sight of her there on the veranda, before she turned full to him, a passionate yearning to take her in his arms, and cover her poor little wasted face with kisses--to call her 'Mate'; to remind her of that wonderful marriage night under the stars.