Yet it was of another than herself that she wrote; she felt that even in her memory of woe.
They faced each other again.

Beatrice's eyes were distended; their depths lightened.
'I am glad! I am glad you met her before it was too late!' Her voice quivered upon a low, rich note.

Such an utterance was the outcome of a nature strong to the last limit of self-conquest.

Wilfrid heard and regarded her with a kind of fear; her intensity passed to him; he trembled.
'I have nothing to pardon,' she continued.

'You were hers long before my love had touched your heart.