I will be no man's slave, and--and, sooner than live with you as your wife, I--I will die in a ditch!" Furiously she flung the words at him, too much carried away by her own madness to note their effect upon him, too angry to see the sudden, leaping flame in his eyes; too utterly reckless to realize that fire kindles fire.
Her fierce wrath was in its way sublime.

She was like a beautiful, wild creature raging at its captor, too infuriated to be afraid.
"I defy you," she declared proudly, "to make me do anything against my will!" There was scorn as well as defiance in her voice--scorn because he stood before her so silently; scorn because the fierce torrent of her anger had flowed unchecked.

She had only to stand up to him, it seemed, and like the giant of the fable he dwindled to a pigmy.

She was no longer hurt by his passivity.

She despised him for it.
But it was for the last time in her life.