For a moment, in the lanes about Finden, there had come to her a vision of joy such as fate owed her youth; but it had faded, and she could no longer hope for its return.

She was not a woman, but a mere machine for reading and writing.

Did her father never think of this?
He was not the only one to suffer from the circumstances in which poverty had involved him.
She had no friends to whom she could utter her thoughts.

Dora Milvain had written a second time, and more recently had come a letter from Maud; but in replying to them she could not give a true account of herself.

Impossible, to them.