Had she but inspired in him a burning love for herself, however much against his will, it would have been very different.

She would have heard her name from his lips, she would have known that all, however false, however artificial, was for herself, while it might last.

To know that it was real, and not for her, was intolerable.

To see this love of his break out at last--this other love which she had dreaded, against which she had fought, which she had met with a jealousy as strong as itself, and struggled with and buried under an imposed forgetfulness--to feel its great waves surging around her and beating up against her heart, was more than she could bear.

Her face grew whiter and her hands were cold.
She dreaded each moment lest he should call her Beatrice again, and say that her fair hair was black and that he loved those deep dark eyes of hers.
There had been one moment of happiness, in that first kiss, in the first pressure of those strong arms.