Each word rose before her eyes, so feverish that she closed them with pain.

The last two years of her life, those which had bound her to Countess Steno, returned to her thoughts, illuminated by a brilliance which drew from her constantly these words, uttered with a moan: How could he?
She saw Venice and their sojourn in the villa to which Boleslas had conducted her after the death of their little girl, in order that there, in the restful atmosphere of the lagoon, she might overcome the keen paroxysm of pain.
How very kind and delicate Madame Steno had been at that time; at least how kind she had seemed, and how delicate likewise, comprehending her grief and sympathizing with it....

Their superficial relations had gradually ripened into friendship.

Then, no doubt, the treason had begun.

The purloiner of love had introduced herself under cover of the pity in which Maud had believed.