She remembered--things that he had said to her--did they mean that he had seen?
She saw it all as he had seen it.

"Delicacy" and "honour" indeed! Disgust and contempt would be more likely feelings.
She lay awake all Saturday night and all Sunday night, until four o'clock on Monday morning; always reviewing the situation, always going over the same patch of ground in the desperate hope of finding some place where her self-respect could rest, and discovering nothing but the traces of her guilty feet.

A subtler woman would have flourished lightly over the territory, till she had whisked away every vestige of her trail; another would have seen the humour of the situation and blown the whole thing into the inane with a burst of healthy laughter; but subtlety and humour were not Miss Quincey's strong points.

She could do nothing but creep shivering to bed and lie there, face to face with her own enormity.
On Monday morning and on many mornings after she crept out into the street stealthily, like a criminal seeking some shelter where she could hide her head.

She acquired a habit--odd enough to the casual onlooker--of slinking cautiously round every turning and rushing every crossing in her abject terror of meeting Bastian Cautley.
There was nobody to tell her that it would not matter if she did meet him; no cheerful woman of the world to smile in her frightened face and say: "My dear Miss Quincey, there is nothing remarkable in this.