Were she to cross that pale, she felt that it might be distinctly amusing.

Margaret was not a wicked woman, but virtue, not virtue in the ordinary sense of the word, but straight walking ahead according to the ideas of Fairbridge, had come to drive her at times to the verge of madness.

Then, too, there was always that secret terrible self-love and ambition of hers, never satisfied, always defeated by petty weapons.

Margaret, sitting as gracefully as a beautiful cat, on the ferry boat that morning realised the vindictive working of her claws, and her impulse to strike at her odds of life, and she derived therefrom an unholy exhilaration.
She got her taxicab on the other side and leaned back, catching frequent glances of admiration, and rode pleasurably to the regal up-town hotel which was the home of Miss Martha Wallingford, while in the city.

She, upon her arrival, entered the hotel with an air which caused a stir among bell boys.