A more thoroughly selfish and heartless epistle could not have been penned.

I always knew her to be selfish, and frivolous, vain, and silly to the backbone--yea, backbone and all; but still I had a sort of liking for her withal.
That letter effectually dispelled any lingering remains of that weakness.

It spoke of her marriage with Reginald Stanford in the most shamelessly insolent and exultant tone.

It alluded to her sister and to poor Jules La Touche in a way that brought the "bitter bad" blood of the old Dantons to my face.

Oh, if I could have but laid my hands on Mistress Rose at that moment, quiet as I am, I think I would have made her ears tingle as they never tingled before.
I said nothing of the letter.