She thought of a number of other little things that might be said, of the same nature and equally amusing.
Her anger flamed up again at the thought of how Janet had concealed this ambition from her, had made her, in a way, the victim of it.

It was not fair--not fair! She could have prepared herself against it; she might have got _her_ book ready sooner, and its triumphant editions might at least have come out side by side with Janet's.
She was just beginning to feel that they were neck and neck, in a way, and now Janet had shot so far ahead, in a night, in a paragraph.

She could never, never catch up! And from under her closed eyelids two hot tears started and ran over her cold cheeks.

It came upon her suddenly that she was sick with jealousy, not envy, but pure anger at being distanced, and she tried to attack herself about it.

With a strong effort she heaped opprobrium and shame upon herself, denounced herself, tried to hate herself.