"It is I who have separated you--spoilt your happiness, if you like.

And I am glad of it.

I can't expect anyone like you to understand"-- there was the familiar flavour of disparagement in her tones--"but I am thankful that my brother has seen the wickedness of his marriage with you, that he has repented of it, and that he is making the only atonement possible!" She turned and composedly laid the pile of pillowslips in their appointed place on the shelf.

A faint fragrance of dried lavender drifted out from the dark depths of the cupboard.

Diane always afterwards associated the smell of lavender with her memories of Catherine Vallincourt, and the sweet, clean scent of it was spoiled for her henceforward.
"I hate you!" she exclaimed in a low voice of helpless rage.