He so certainly involved her in the burlesque of the transformation that she had to quench memory.
She was, therefore, having smothered a good part of herself, accountably languid--a condition alternating with fire in Aminta; and as Mr.
Morsfield's letter supplied the absent element, her needy instinct pushed her to read his letter through.

She had not yet done that with attention.
Whether a woman loves a man or not, he is her lover if he dare tell her he loves her, and is heard with attention.

Aware that the sentences were poison, she summoned her constitutional antagonism to the mad step proposed, so far nullifying the virus as to make her shrink from the madness.

Even then her soul cried out to her husband, Who drives me to read?
or rather, to brood upon what she read.

The brooding ensued, was the thirst of her malady.