It was as if all the slumbering violence of her nature was aroused to a burning and relentless hatred of her own weakness.

This emotion, which was so profound, so torrential, in its force that it seemed to shake the depths of her being, left room for no other feeling--for no other thought in her consciousness.

She had but one life to live, and by her own fault, she had ruined it in its beginning.
Then her mood changed, and she sat up, straight and stern, while she wiped her reddened eyelids with an impetuous and resolute gesture.

No, she was not crushed; she would not allow herself even to be hurt.

Her lot might be as sordid as Jane's, but she would make it different by the strength and the effectiveness of her resistance.