Nor was I quite devoid of some little fear.

Would she be sorrowful, resigned, pathetic, angry, or what?
It was impossible to tell.
Imagine my surprise on opening the breakfast-room door to find her already at the table, looking blooming and beautiful as a June rose.

She greeted me gayly, with bright smiles and bright words.

I might have thought all the passion, the sorrow and despair of last night a dream.
Only too happy to imitate her, I began to talk of a score of indifferent matters.

About everything she had some piquant, bright words to say.