The sense of her degradation had never been so bitterly present to her as at that moment.

If she could only confess the truth--if she could innocently enjoy her harmless life at Mablethorpe House--what a grateful, happy woman she might be! Was it possible (if she made the confession) to trust to her own good conduct to plead her excuse?
No! Her calmer sense warned her that it was hopeless.

The place she had won--honestly won--in Lady Janet's estimation had been obtained by a trick.

Nothing could alter, nothing could excuse, _that_.

She took out her handkerchief and dashed away the useless tears that had gathered in her eyes, and tried to turn her thoughts some other way.