It was still active tragedy with Bianca, the nerve of whose jealous desire for his appreciation was not dead.

Her instinct, too, ironically informed her that, had he been a man with some brutality, a man who had set himself to ride and master her, instead of one too delicate, he might have trampled down the hedge.

This gave her a secret grudge against him, a feeling that it was not she who was to blame.
Pride was Bianca's fate, her flavour, and her charm.

Like a shadowy hill-side behind glamorous bars of waning sunlight, she was enveloped in smiling pride--mysterious; one thinks, even to herself.

This pride of hers took part even in her many generous impulses, kind actions which she did rather secretly and scoffed at herself for doing.