She could not sit still, because suddenly the blood ran fast and hot through her veins.
She put her hands against her cheeks and laughed a little, low laugh.
"I feel violent," she said.

"I feel violent and I must get over it.

This is rage.

Rage is worth nothing." It was rage--the rage of splendid hot blood which surged in answer to leaping hot thoughts.

There would have been a sort of luxury in giving way to the sway of it.