So the sketch, with which he had finished, really, months ago, was dragged out, and made queen of all it surveyed, because, no doubt, he was miserable at parting with the picture.

Ingenuity and self-torment grew with what they fed on.
The burning lamps--the solitude--the graceful woman, with her slim, fine-lady hands--with every moment they became in Phoebe's eyes a more bitter, a more significant offence.

Presently, in her foolish agony, she did actually believe that he had thought she might descend upon him, provoked beyond bearing by his silence and neglect, and had carefully planned this infamous way of telling her--what he wanted her to know! Waves of unreasoning passion swept across her.

The gentleness and docility of her youth had been perhaps mechanical, half-conscious; she came in truth of a hard stock, capable of violence.

She put her hands to her face, trembled, and turned away.