Pale, sorrow-stricken, and patient, she moved about, the ghost of herself; and lay down a little, and then tried to work a little, and then to read a little; and could settle to nothing but sorrow and deep despondency.
Not that she nursed her grief.

She had been told to be brave, and she tried.

But her grief was her master.

It came welling through her eyes in a moment, of its own accord.
She was deeply mortified too.

But, in her gentle nature, anger could play but a secondary part.