There was an unaccountable and not understood fear in her--fear that in the discussion which must arise if she spoke of who her husband was to Henry, that something might transpire, or that she might hear something which would reawaken certain emotions, and weaken her determination to break the even empty bond with Michael.

And now she had seen him again with her mortal eyes, and she knew that she was trembling and tingling with a mad sensation of she knew not what--hatred and revulsion she hoped! but was only sure of one aspect of it--that of wild excitement.
No one--not a single soul--neither Simone--Madame Imogen--nor Pere Anselme himself must be allowed to see that she recognized Michael--her belief that her countrywomen were fine actresses should stand her in good stead, and enable her to play this part of unconsciousness to perfection.

_She would_ conquer herself--and she stamped her little foot there in the high turret bower in the garden where she had retired.

Its windows opened straight out to the sea and she often had tea there.
There would be no use in all her prayers for calm and poise if they should desert her now in this great crisis of her life.

She was bound to Henry by her promised word, given of her own free will--and she meant to keep it, and do everything in her power to make herself free.