Fay was unconsciously growing to hate the thought of that one other person, to turn with horror from the remembrance of Michael: his sufferings, his patient life in death filled her with nausea, disgust.

Her vehement selfish passion for him had been smothered by the hideous debris which had been cast upon it.
She had never loved him, as the duke well knew, and now the shivering remembrance of him, constantly renewed by Wentworth, had become like a poignard in a wound that would not heal.

Wentworth had to-day yet again unconsciously turned the dagger in the wound, and her whole being sickened and shuddered.

Oh! if she could only tear out that sharp-bladed remembrance and cast it from her, then in time the aching wound in her life might heal, and she might become happy and well and at peace once more;--at peace like Magdalen.

An envious anger flared up in her mind against Magdalen's calm and happy face.
Oh, if poor Michael could only die! He wanted to die.