"There is a difference.

The clever ones are the worst." The countess shrugged her shoulders hopelessly, and Catrina left the room.

She went upstairs to her own little den, where the piano stood.

It was the only room in the house that was not too warm, for here the window was occasionally opened--a proceeding which the countess considered scarcely short of criminal.
Catrina began to play, feverishly, nervously, with all the weird force of her nature.

She was like a very sick person seeking a desperate remedy--racing against time.