By the mere living in Lucy's sight she would gain her end.

From the first she had realised the inmost quality of the girl's strong and diffident personality.

What Manisty feared she counted on.
Sometimes, just for a moment, as one may lean over the edge of a precipice, she imagined herself yielding, recalling Manisty, withdrawing her own claim, and the barrier raised by her own vindictive agony.

The mind sped along the details that might follow--the girl's loyal resistance--Manisty's ardour--Manisty's fascination--the homage and the seduction, the quarrels and the impatience with which he would surround her--the scenes in which Lucy's reserve mingling with her beauty would but evoke on the man's side all the ingenuity, all the delicacy of which he was capable--and the final softening of that sweet austerity which hid Lucy's heart of gold .-- No!--Lucy had no passion!--she would tell herself with a feverish, an angry vehemence.

How would she ever bear with Manisty, with the alternate excess and defect of his temperament?
And suddenly, amid the shadows of the past winter Eleanor would see herself writing, and Manisty stooping over her,--his hand taking her pen, his shoulder touching hers.