There was no thought of weariness in this mazed, dream-world of hers.
At the beginning of her married life, so far behind her now that she scarcely remembered it, she had gone through pangs of suffering and fierce regret.

Her whole nature had revolted, and it had taken all her strength to quell it.

But that was long, long past.

She had ceased to feel anything now, but a dumb and even placid acquiescence in this lethargic existence, and Ralph Dacre was amply satisfied therewith.

He had always been abundantly confident of his power to secure her happiness, and he was blissfully unconscious of the wild impulse to rebellion which she had barely stifled.