Her greatest scorn was for girls who made themselves cheap with men; and she could not hide it.

It was a physical pain to Grizel to hide her feelings; they popped out in her face, if not in words, and were always in advance of her self-control.

To the doctor this impulsiveness was pathetic; he loved her for it, but it sometimes made him uneasy.
He died in the scarlet-fever year.

"I'm smitten," he suddenly said at a bedside; and a week afterwards he was gone.
"We must speak of it now, Grizel," he said, when he knew that he was dying.
She pressed his hand.

She knew to what he was referring.