But it was not to any purpose.
"I don't believe that you hear a single word I am saying!" she exclaimed.
Ethne laughed and pleaded guilty.

She betook herself to her room as soon as lunch was finished, and allowed herself an afternoon of solitude.
Sitting at her window, she repeated slowly the story which Willoughby had told to her that morning, and her heart thrilled to it as to music divinely played.

The regret that he had not come home and told it a year ago, when she was free, was a small thing in comparison with the story itself.

It could not outweigh the great gladness which that brought to her--it had, indeed, completely vanished from her thoughts.

Her pride, which had never recovered from the blow which Harry Feversham had dealt to her in the hall at Lennon House, was now quite restored, and by the man who had dealt the blow.