She wondered what she was doing and guessed Annie was writing a new novel to take the place of the one of which she had robbed her.

An acute desire which was like a pain to be herself the injured instead of the injurer possessed her.

Oh, what would it mean to be Annie sitting there, without leisure to brood over her new happiness, working, working, into the morning hours and have nothing to look upon except moral and physical beauty in her mental looking-glass.

She envied the poor girl, who was really working beyond her strength, as she had never envied any human being.

The envy stung her, and she could not sleep.