He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? 
He had spoken with great energy, but in a low voice. She was looking full at him; and that scar and his gloomy eyes seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. When he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark.
When he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song.
Were the waters telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her - had she not said it to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily - hourly - that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to have virtues which she did not possess? 