Of that she felt sure, for she could not suppose that Taquisara himself was not convinced of the fact.

Nor had she the smallest beginning of a tender sentimentality about the fair-haired young man.

Nevertheless, if she was to meet him, she did not wish to be positively ugly, as she seemed to be to herself when she looked into the mirror, facing the dulness of the rain-beaten window.
Whether she herself was ever to care for him or not, she somehow did not wish to disappoint him by her appearance, and the undefined fear lest she might affected her spirits.

Then, before she had quite finished dressing, Matilde Macomer knocked at the door and came in.

She was looking far worse than Veronica, and from the absence of colour in her face, her eyes seemed to be more near together than ever.