All her plaintive clinging charm had disappeared.

It was the fierceness of the dove--the egotism of the weak.

Every line and nerve of the fragile form betrayed the exasperation of suffering and a tension of the will, unnatural and irresistible.

Lucy bowed to the storm.
She lay with her eyes hidden, conscious only of this accusing voice close to her,--and of the song of two nightingales without, rivalling each other among the chestnut trees above the lower road.

Eleanor resumed after a momentary pause--a momentary closing of the tired eyes, as though in search of calm and recollection.
'You came.