Nobody dreams who wrote it, and I have had a statement and oh, my dear, next November I am to have a check." (Annie leaned over and whispered in Margaret's ear.) "Only think," she said with a burst of rapture.
Margaret was quite pale.

She sat looking straight before her with a strange expression.

She was tasting in the very depths of her soul a bitterness which was more biting than any bitter herb which ever grew on earth.

It was a bitterness, which, thank God, is unknown to many; the bitterness of the envy of an incapable, but self-seeking nature, of one with the burning ambition of genius but destitute of the divine fire.

To such come unholy torture, which is unspeakable at the knowledge of another's success.