And none who saw her delicate, aristocratic beauty of face and figure and dress could have attributed to her the angry, ugly, snobbish thoughts, like a black core hidden deep in the heart of a bewitching flower.
As he sat opposite her in the compartment, she was exaggerating into glaring faults the many little signs of indifference to fashion in his dress.

She had never especially noted before, but now she was noting as a shuddering exhibition of "commonness," that he wore detachable cuffs--and upon this detail her distraught mind fixed as typical.

She could not take her eyes off his wrists; every time he moved his arms so that she could see the wristband within his cuff, she felt as if a piece of sandpaper were scraping her skin.

He laid his hand on her two gloved hands, folded loosely in her lap.

Every muscle, every nerve of her body grew tense; she only just fought down the impulse to snatch her hands away and shriek at him.
She sat rigid, her teeth set, her eyes closed, until her real self got some control over the monstrous, crazy creature raving within her.