I must cure him of his love for me; and then die; for what shall I have to live for?
He weeps, he sighs, he cries for Josephine." Her enforced cruelty was more contrary to this woman's nature than black is to white, or heat to cold, and the heart rebelled furiously at times.
As when a rock tries to stem a current, the water fights its way on more sides than one, so insulted nature dealt with Josephine.

Not only did her body pine, but her nerves were exasperated.

Sudden twitches came over her, that almost made her scream.

Her permanent state was utter despondency, but across it came fitful flashes of irritation; and then she was scarce mistress of herself.
Wherefore you, who find some holy woman cross and bitter, stop a moment before you sum her up vixen and her religion naught: inquire the history of her heart: perhaps beneath the smooth cold surface of duties well discharged, her life has been, or even is, a battle against some self-indulgence the insignificant saint's very blood cries out for: and so the poor thing is cross, not because she is bad, but because she is better than the rest of us; yet only human.
Now though Josephine was more on her guard with the baroness than with Rose, or the doctor, or Jacintha, her state could not altogether escape the vigilance of a mother's eye.
But the baroness had not the clew we have; and what a difference that makes! How small an understanding, put by accident or instruction on the right track, shall run the game down! How great a sagacity shall wander if it gets on a false scent! "Doctor," said the baroness one day, "you are so taken up with your patient you neglect the rest of us.

Do look at Josephine! She is ill, or going to be ill.