As she closed the door behind her she heard Jane saying gently: "Yes, I forgive you, Charley, but I can't help feeling that you don't love me as you ought to." An old cape of her mother's was lying on a chair in the hall, and, throwing it over her shoulders, Gabriella went out on the porch and stood breathing quickly in the cold air, with her hand pressed on her bosom, which rose and fell as if she had been running.

She was not only furious, she was grossly affronted, though she had known from the beginning, she said to herself, exactly how it would end.

She had never trusted Jane--no, not a minute; she had never really trusted her mother.
Something had told her that Jane had never meant in her heart to leave Charley, that she was only making a scene, after the immemorial habit of women, before going back to him.

And yet, though she had suspected this all along, she was as indignant as if she had been deceived by a conspiracy of the three of them.

Her sense of decency was outraged.