Margaret Edes was inwardly writhing.
To think that Annie Eustace, little Annie Eustace, who had worshipped at her own shrine, whom she had regarded with a lazy, scarcely concealed contempt, for her incredible lack of wordly knowledge, her provincialism, her ill-fitting attire, should have achieved a triumph which she herself could never achieve.

A cold hatred of the girl swept over the woman.

She forced her lips into a smile, but her eyes were cruel.
"How very interesting, my dear," she said.
Poor Annie started.

She was acute, for all her innocent trust in another's goodness, and the tone of her friend's voice, the look in her eyes chilled her.

And yet she did not know what they signified.
She went on begging for sympathy and rejoicing with her joy as a child might beg for a sweet.