Rand, looking after him, saw him speak to her, and saw her answer with a smile.
A pang ran through him, acrid and fiery.

It was not like the vapour of distaste and dislike, of which he had been conscious on the day of the election.

That had been cold and clinging; this was a burning and a poisoned arrow.

It killed the softening, the consciousness of charm, the spell of Cary's kindness while he lay there helpless in the blue room.
Not since the old days when his heart was hot against his father, had he felt such venom, such rancour.

That had been a boy's wild revolt against injustice; this passion was the fury of the adolescent who sees his rival.