Fears which were all but terrors, self-reproach which had the poignancy of remorse, tormented her gentle, timid nature.

For a week and more she had not known unbroken sleep; dreams of fantastic misery awakened her to worse distress in the calculating of her perils and conflict with insidious doubts.

At the dead hour before dawn, faiths of childhood revived before her conscience, upbraiding, menacing.

The common rules of every-day honour spoke to her with stern reproval.

Denzil's arguments, when she tried to muster them in her defence, answered with hollow, meaningless sound.