Yet I remained standing where she had passed me, and watched her enter the coach.

I looked after the vehicle as it wheeled round and rattled out over the drawbridge, to raise a cloud of dust on the white, dry road beyond.
In that hour I experienced a sense of desolation and a pain to which I find it difficult to give expression.

It seemed to me as if she had gone out of my life for all time--as if no reparation that I could ever make would suffice to win her back after what had passed between us that morning.

Already wounded in her pride by what Mademoiselle de Marsac had told her of our relations, my behaviour in the rose garden had completed the work of turning into hatred the tender feelings that but yesterday she had all but confessed for me.

That she hated me now, I was well assured.