Then over her crept a fierce resentment against Henry.

Why should she be sacrificed to him?
He was forty years old, and had lived his life; and she was young, and had not yet really begun to enjoy her's.

How would she be able to bear it; or to act even complaisance when every fiber of her being was turning in mad passion and desire to Michael, her love?
Then her sense of justice resumed its sway.

Henry at least was not to blame--no one was to blame but her own self.

And as she had proudly agreed with Michael that every one must come up to the scratch, she must fulfil her part.