It was bitter enough that one could be brought to utter the thing, even if her ideas were so base as to suspect it.

The tears now came dancing over her under-lids like triumphing imps.

"Money!" echoed through her again and again.
Curiously, too, she had no occasion to ask how it was that money might be supposed to have operated on her father's health.

Unable to realize to herself the image of her father lying ill and suffering, but just sufficiently touched by what she could conceive of his situation, the bare whisper of money came like a foul insult to overwhelm her in floods of liquid self-love.

She wept with that last anguish of a woman who is compelled to weep, but is incapable of finding any enjoyment in her tears.