The confused sense of helpless distress which she had felt, after reading the few farewell words that Frances had addressed to her, still oppressed her mind.

There were moments when she vaguely understood, and bitterly lamented, the motives which had animated her unhappy friend.
Other moments followed, when she impulsively resented the act which had thrown her on her own resources, at the very time when she had most need of the encouragement that could be afforded by the sympathy of a firmer nature than her own.

She began to doubt the steadiness of her resolution--without Frances to take leave of her, on the morning of the escape.

For the first time, she was now tortured by distrust of Ovid's reception of her; by dread of his possible disapproval of her boldness; by morbid suspicion even of his taking his mother's part.

Bewildered and reckless, she threw herself on the sofa--her heart embittered against Frances--indifferent whether she lived or died.
At dinner-time she sent a message, begging to be excused from appearing at the table.