Something she must keep of her own.

But if she did keep something of her own?
Immediately she figured an immured life, continuing for an immense period, the same feelings living for ever, neither dwindling nor changing within the ring of a thick stone wall.

The imagination of this loneliness frightened her, and yet to speak--to lose her loneliness, for it had already become dear to her, was beyond her power.
Her hand went down to the hem of Katharine's skirt, and, fingering a line of fur, she bent her head as if to examine it.
"I like this fur," she said, "I like your clothes.

And you mustn't think that I'm going to marry Ralph," she continued, in the same tone, "because he doesn't care for me at all.

He cares for some one else." Her head remained bent, and her hand still rested upon the skirt.
"It's a shabby old dress," said Katharine, and the only sign that Mary's words had reached her was that she spoke with a little jerk.
"You don't mind my telling you that ?" said Mary, raising herself.
"No, no," said Katharine; "but you're mistaken, aren't you ?" She was, in truth, horribly uncomfortable, dismayed, indeed, disillusioned.