She was in a state of rebellion against herself.

Through all the hardening influences of the woman's life--through the fortifications against good which watchful evil builds in human hearts--that innocent outburst of trust and grief had broken its way; and had purified for a while the fetid inner darkness with divine light.

She had entered the room, with her own base interests to serve.

In her small sordid way she, like her employer, was persecuted by debts--miserable debts to sellers of expensive washes, which might render her ugly complexion more passable in Ovid's eyes; to makers of costly gloves, which might show Ovid the shape of her hands, and hide their colour; to skilled workmen in fine leather, who could tempt Ovid to look at her high instep, and her fine ankle--the only beauties that she could reveal to the only man whom she cared to please.

For the time, those importunate creditors ceased to threaten her.