But where could the dagger be now?
Could it have fallen out of her pocket?
She heard steps ascending the stairs, and hurried on to her room, where, kneeling by the bed, and burying her face to shut out the hateful light, she tried to recall every feeling and incident of the morning.
It all came back; everything Anthony had done, and everything she had felt for the last month--for many months--ever since that June evening when he had last spoken to her in the gallery.

She looked back on her storms of passion, her jealousy and hatred of Miss Assher, her thoughts of revenge on Anthony.

O how wicked she had been! It was she who had been sinning; it was she who had driven him to do and say those things that had made her so angry.

And if he had wronged her, what had she been on the verge of doing to him?
She was too wicked ever to be pardoned.

She would like to confess how wicked she had been, that they might punish her; she would like to humble herself to the dust before every one--before Miss Assher even.