She was only a woman, and had a woman's little weakness; and, though she had never appeared in a low dress in her life, she knew that her neck was one of her greatest beauties, and was proud of it.

It was hard to think that she would be marked all her life with this ridiculous will--that is, if she escaped--and, what was more, for the benefit of a young man who had no claim upon her at all.
That was what she said to herself; but as she said it, something in her told her that it was not true.

Something told her that this young Mr.
Eustace Meeson _had_ a claim upon her--the highest claim that a man could have upon a woman, for the truth must out--she loved him.

It seemed to have come home to her quite clearly here in this dreadful desolate place, here in the very shadow of an awful death, that she did love him, truly and deeply.

And that being so, she would not have been what she was--a gentle-natured, devoted woman--had she not at heart rejoiced at this opportunity of self-sacrifice, even though that self-sacrifice was of the hardest sort, seeing that it involved what all women hate--the endurance of a ridiculous position.