"Miss Quentin doesn't in the least resemble ordinary mortals.

She isn't afflicted by like passions with ourselves, and she doesn't understand--or forgive them." The words, uttered as though in jest, held an undercurrent of meaning for Diana that sent the colour flying up under her clear skin.

There was a bitter taunt in them that none knew better than she how to interpret.
She winced under it, and a fierce resentment flared up within her that he should dare to reproach, her--he, who had been the offender from first to last.

Always, now, he seemed to be laughing at her, mocking her.

He appeared an entirely different person from the man who had been so careful of her welfare during the eventful journey they had made together.
She lifted her head a little defiantly.
"No," she said, with significance.