Her sense of his love and generosity was as disinterested as if some other person had been their object.

Her admiration was such as one feels for a hero of history or fiction.
Often, when all within her seemed growing hard and still and dead, she felt that crying would make her feel better.

At such times, to help her to cry, for the tears did not flow easily, she would sit down to the piano, the only times she ever touched it, and play over some of the simple airs associated with her life at home.

Sometimes, after playing and crying a while, she would lapse into sweetly mournful day-dreams of how happy she might have been if she had returned Henry's love in those old days.

She wondered in a puzzled way why it was that she had not.