She could not tell the old mother her doubts and cares; the would-be sisters seemed every day more strange to her.

And she had misgivings and fears which she dared not acknowledge to herself, though she was always secretly brooding over them.
Her heart tried to persist in asserting that George Osborne was worthy and faithful to her, though she knew otherwise.

How many a thing had she said, and got no echo from him.

How many suspicions of selfishness and indifference had she to encounter and obstinately overcome.

To whom could the poor little martyr tell these daily struggles and tortures?
Her hero himself only half understood her.