It was enough to make a cat laugh, or a woman cry with rage.
"Able and brilliant and splendid and far-seeing, and radiantly handsome!" There the picture was of a high, haughty, and overbearing woman, in velvet, or brocade, or poplin-yes, something stiff and overbearing, like grey poplin.

Kitty looked at herself suddenly in the mirror-the half-length mirror on the opposite wall--and she felt her hands clench and her bosom beat hard under her pretty and inexpensive calico frock, a thing for Chloe, not for Juno.
She was very angry with Crozier, for it was absurd, that look of deprecating homage, that "Hush-she-is-coming" in his eyes.

What a fool a man was where a woman was concerned! Here she had been fighting herself for a fortnight to conquer a useless passion for her man of all the world, fit to command an array of giants; and she saw him now almost breathless as he spoke of a great wild-cat of a woman who ought to be by his side now.

What sort of a woman was she anyhow, who could let him go into exile as he had done and live apart from her all these years, while he "slogged away"-- that was the Western phrase which came to her mind--to pull himself level with things again?
Her feet shuffled unevenly on the floor, and it would have been a joy to shake the in valid there with the rapt look in his face.

Unable to bear the situation without some demonstration, she got to her feet and caught up the glass of brandy and milk with a little exclamation.
"Here," she said, holding the glass to his lips, "here, courage, soldier.