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591 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1889










She was finding it increasingly difficult to get along with Betsy; they quarrelled frequently, and most of the time it wasn't even her fault. Then there was Frederique, who was noticeably cool towards her, for what reason she hadn't the faintest idea, and although Madame van Raat seemed fond of her as ever, Eline herself had not lately been minded to display the winsome, respectful openness, that had endeared her to the old lady. There was no point to her life, the way she drifted aimlessly from one day to the next, and she yearned fro some vague idea, a dream without a particular contour but replete with figments of passions and love ranging from the exalted to the mundane, from the heights of idyllic romance to the simple, quiet joys of home and hearth.
Alone at last, she allowed herself to surrender to the storm of emotion raging in her heart, and with an anguished cry fell to her knees beside the Persian sofa. She pressed her throbbing forehead to the soft cushions embroidered with gold, trying to stifle her racking sobs with her hands, in so doing her hair came loose and tumbled about her slight, shaking frame in a mass of glossy waves.
The initial pain of disillusionment had ceded to a feeling of bitterness, as if she, even if only in her own eyes, had brought ridicule upon herself and disgrace, the stain of which would cling to her forever, haunting her like a spectre of mockery.