She knew that from now until it was done, she should have no moment in which she could allow herself the pitiful luxury of feeling weak.

And as she stood there, and thought of the strange messages she had but now received from beyond the grave, she felt the terror of what the dead man's spirit might say to her when all was done, and Veronica lay dead in her own room upstairs--in this coming night.
The fear followed her up the steps like a living thing, its hand on her shoulder, its cold lips close to her ears, breathing fright and whispering terror.

And it went in with her to her own room, and kept freezing company with her throughout a long half-hour of mental agony.
It could not bend her, but it almost broke her.

If she could stand and walk and see, she would go to Veronica's room that afternoon and kill her.

She hated her, too.