Honoria loved her; but understood her even less than her mother.

Pride--the pride of intellect, the pride of self- will--had long since sealed her lips to her own family.

.

.

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And then, out of the darkness of her heart, Lancelot's image rose before her stronger than all, tenderer than all; and as she remembered his magical faculty of anticipating all her thoughts, embodying for her all her vague surmises, he seemed to beckon her towards him .-- She shuddered and turned away.