A moment later Janet Cardiff's name in the second paragraph had sprung at her throat, it seemed to Elfrida, and choked her.
She could not see--she could not see! The print was so bad, the light was infernal, the carriage jolted so.

She got up and held the paper nearer to the lamp in the roof, staying herself against the end of a seat.

As she read she grew paler, and the paper shook in her hand.

"One of the valuable books of the year," "showing grasp of character and keen dramatic instinct," "a distinctly original vein," "too slender a plot for perfect symmetry, but a treatment of situation at once nervous and strong," were some of the commonplaces that said themselves over and again in her mind as she sank back into her place by the window with the paper lying across her lap.
Her heart beat furiously, her head was in a whirl; she stared hard, for calmness, into the swift-passing night outside.

Presently she recognized herself to be angry with an intense still jealous anger that seemed to rise and consume her in every part of her being.