Because Bastian Cautley was what he was, he could never be guilty of spontaneous discourtesy; on the other hand, she had seen that he could be fierce enough on provocation; therefore, she argued, he had some obscure ground of offence against her.
Miss Quincey passed a sleepless night reasoning about the reason, a palpitating never-ending night, without a doze or a dream in it or so much as the winking of an eyelid.

She reasoned about it for a week between the classes, and in her spare time (when she had any) in the evening (thus running into debt to _Sordello_ again).

At the end of the week Miss Quincey's mind seemed to have become remarkably lucid; every thought in it ground to excessive subtlety in the mill of her logic.

She saw it all clearly.

There had been some misunderstanding, some terrible mistake.