She could have heard without a regret that the heart was to cease beating.
Had it been downright misery she would have looked about her with less of her exanimate glassiness.

The unhappy have a form of life: until they are worn out, they feel keenly.

She felt nothing.

The blow to her pride of station and womanhood struck on numbed sensations.

She could complain that the blow was not heavier.
A letter lying in her jewel-box called her to read it, for the chance of some slight stir.