If asked why she was so pre-occupied, she lifted her eyes with a look of surprise as she replied that she was thinking of something.

Seated before the working-frame, her hands mechanically drawing the needle back and forth, very quiet to all outward appearance, she was, from morning till evening, distracted by one thought.

To be loved! To be loved! And for herself, on her side, was she in love?
This was still an obscure question, to which, in her inexperience, she found no answer.

She repeated it so constantly that at last it made her giddy, the words lost all their usual meaning, and everything seemed to be in a whirl, which carried her away.

With an effort she recovered herself, and realised that, with needle in hand, she was still embroidering with her accustomed application, although mechanically, as if in a half-dream.
Perhaps these strange symptoms were a sign that she was about to have a severe illness.