No one knew of it; possibly Roland suspected something, but he had not ventured to make any inquiries, and she had no reason to believe that he even suspected its existence.

It was simply altogether her own; no other mind had any part or share in it.
There was something like rapture in her delight.

The book was a good book, she was sure of it.

She had not succeeded in making it as perfect as her ideal, but she had not signally failed.

It did in a fair degree represent her inmost thoughts and fancies.