As is usual with reserved persons, Jehane's transports, far from assuaging, tormented her, or seemed a torment.

She loved uneasily, by hot and cold fits; now melting, now dry, now fierce in demand, next passionate in refusal.

To snatch of love succeeded repulsion of love.
She would fling herself headlong into Richard's arms, and sob there, feverish; then, as suddenly, struggle for release, as one who longs to hide herself, and finding that refused, lie motionless like a woman of wax.

Whether embraced or not, out of touch with him she was desperate.
She could not bear that, but sought (unknown to him) to have hold of some part of him--the edge of his tunic, the tip of his sword, his glove--something she must have.

Without it she sat quivering, throbbing all over, looking at him from under her brows and biting her dumb lips.
If at such a time as this some other addressed her the word (as, to free her from her anguish, one would sometimes do), she would perhaps answer him, Yes or No, but nothing more.