She beat the bedclothes in her restlessness.

Suddenly she sat up straight in bed.
"Oh, if I hadn't been a Lavilette! If I'd only been born and brought up with the sort of people he comes from, I'd not have been ashamed of myself or him of me." The plush bodice she had worn that day danced before her eyes.

She knew how horribly ugly it was.

Her fingers ran over the patchwork quilt on her bed; and although she could not see it, she loathed it, because she knew it was a painful mess of colours.

With a little touch of dramatic extravagance, she leaned over and down, and drew her fingers contemptuously along the rag-carpet on the floor.