Anne, not recognising the utterance of his helpless humanity, put that laugh down to the account of the devil that had insulted her.

Her heart grew harder.
"I am clothed, and in my right mind," said Majendie, standing before her with his hand on the window sill.
She looked up at him, at the face she knew, the face that (oddly, it seemed to her) had not changed to suit her new conception of him, that maintained its protest.

She had loved everything about him, from the dark, curling hair of his head to his well-finished feet; she had loved his slender, virile body, and the clean red and brown of his face, the strong jaw and the mouth that, hidden under the short moustache, she divined only to be no less strong.

More than these things she had loved his eyes, the dark, bright dwelling-places of the "goodness" she had loved best of all in him.

Used to smiling as they looked at her, they smiled even now.
"If you'll take my advice," he said, "you'll go back to your warm bed.
You shall have the whole place to yourself." And with that he left her.
She rose, went to the bed, arranged the turned-back blanket so as to hide the place where he had lain, and slid on to her knees, supporting herself by the bedside.
Never before had Anne hurled herself into the heavenly places in turbulence and disarray.