She had never since the day of her awakening mentioned the name of her faithless or unfortunate lover, but her silent magnanimity had become the expression of a reproach too deep for words, and her bitter scorn of men had so grown upon her in her cloistral existence that there were hours together when she could not endure even the inoffensive Percival.

Cold, white, and spectral as one of the long slim candles on an altar, still beautiful with an indignant and wounded loveliness, she had become in the end at once the shame and the romance of her family.
"There is no reason under the sun why Aunt Angela shouldn't come down to dinner with us to-night," persisted Laura.

"Don't you see that by encouraging her as you did in her foolish attitude, you have given her past power over her for life and death.

It is wrong--it is ignoble to bow down and worship anything--man, woman, child, or event, as she bows down and worships her trouble." The flute shook on Uncle Percival's knees.

"Ah, Laura, would you have her face the world again ?" he asked.
"The world?
Nonsense! The world doesn't know there's such a person in it.