In a pot beside it were brushes.
She caught up a large brush, dipped it in the paint, and going to the picture--panting and crimson--she daubed it from top to bottom, blotting out the eyes, the mouth, the beautiful outline of the head--above all, the hands, whose delicate whiteness specially enraged her.
When the work of wreck was done, she stood a moment gazing at it.
Then, violently, she looked for writing-paper.

She could see none: but there was an unused half-sheet at the back of one of Madame de Pastourelles' letters, and she roughly tore it off.

Making use of a book held on her knee, and finding the pen and ink with which, only half an hour before, Lord Findon had written his cheque, she began to write: Good-bye, John,--I have found out all I want to know, and you will never see me again.

I will never be a burden on a man who is ashamed of me, and has behaved as though I were dead.

It is no good wasting words--you know it's true.