Polly especially, her pride was stabbed and tormented in all directions.
And her nature was of the proudest.

Where could she feel secure? In Helbeck's heart? But in the inmost shrine
of that heart she felt the brooding of a majestic and exacting power that
knew her not. Her jealousy--her fear--grew day by day.

And as to the rest, her imagination was full of the most feverish and
fantastic shapes. Since her talk with Polly the world had seemed to her a
mere host of buzzing enemies. All the persons concerned passed through
her fancy with the mask and strut of caricature. The little mole on
Sister Angela's nose--the slightly drooping eyelid that marred the
Reverend Mother's left cheek--the nasal twang of the orphans'
singing--Father Bowles pouncing on a fly--Father Leadham's stately
ways--she made a mock or an offence out of them all, bitterly chattering
and drawing pictures with herself, like a child with a grievance.

And then on the top of these feelings and exaggerations of the child,
would return the bewildering, the ever-increasing trouble of the woman.

She sprang up.

"If I could--if I _could_! Then it would be we two together--against the
rest. Else--how shall I be his wife at all?"

She ran into the study. There on the shelf beside Helbeck's table stood a
little Manual of Catholic Instruction, that she knew well. She turned
over the pages, till she came to the sections dealing with the reception
of converts.