And the author was her husband! Diana, staring down from her box at that exquisite, breathing incarnation of grace on the stage below, felt that she hated Adrienne.
She had never hated any one before, and the intensity of her feeling frightened her.

Since a few months ago, strange, deep emotions had stirred within her--a passion of love and a passion of hatred such as in the days of her simple girlhood she would not have believed to be possible to any ordinary well-brought-up young Englishwoman.

That Max was capable of a fierce heat of passion, she knew.

But then, he was not all English; wilder blood ran in his veins.

She could imagine his killing a man if driven by the lash of passionate jealousy.