She annoyed and wearied him; and he had shaken her off; her, Eleanor Burgoyne! She did not know herself.

Her inmost sense of identity was shaken.
She leant her head an instant against the frame of the open window, closing her tired eyes upon the great Campagna below her.

A surge of rebellious will passed through her.

Always submission, patience, silence,--till now! But there are moments when a woman must rouse herself, and fight--must not accept, but make, her fate.
Jealous! Was that last heat and ignominy of the soul to be hers too?
She was to find it a threat and offence that he should spend some of the evenings that now went so heavily, talking with this girl,--this nice simple girl, whom she had herself bade him cultivate, whom she had herself brought into notice, rubbing off her angles,--drilling her into beauty?
The very notion was madness and absurdity.

It degraded her in her own eyes.