She marked the upright elegance of his figure, the easy grace of his movements, the fine aristocratic mould of the aquiline face, which she beheld in profile; and she hated him the more for these outward favours that must commend him to no lack of women.

He was too masterful.

He made her realize too keenly her own weakness and that of Richard.

She felt that just now he controlled the vice that held her fast--her affection for her brother.
And because of that she hated him the more.

"You see, Mistress Westmacott," said he, his shoulder to her, his tone sweet to the point of sadness, "that there is nothing else." She stood, her eyes following the pattern of the parquetry, her foot unconsciously tracing it; her courage ebbed, and she had no answer for him.