Some Jewish defiance had flamed into her indignant gratitude and her anger could not help including Gwendolen since she seemed to have doubted Deronda's goodness.
But Gwendolen was like one parched with thirst, drinking the fresh water that spreads through the frame as a sufficient bliss. She did not notice that Mirah was angry with her; she was not distinctly conscious of anything but of the penetrating sense that Deronda and his life were no more like her husband's conception than the morning in the horizon was like the morning mixed with street gas. Even Mirah's words sank into the indefiniteness of her relief. She could hardly have repeated them, or said how her whole state of feeling was changed. She pressed Mirah's hand, and said, "Thank you, thank you," in a hurried whisper, then rose, and added, with only a hazy consciousness, "I must go, I shall see you--on the fourth--I am so much obliged"--bowing herself out automatically, while Mirah, opening the door for her, wondered at what seemed a sudden retreat into chill loftiness.

Some Jewish defiance flamed into her indignant gratitude.
But Gwendolen was like one parched with thirst and drinking fresh water. She did not notice Mirah's anger; she was not conscious of anything but of the sense that Deronda was no more like her husband's conception than the dawn was like gas-light. Her whole state of feeling was changed.
She pressed Mirah's hand, and said, "Thank you, thank you," in a hurried whisper, then rose, adding, "I must go, I shall see you on the 4th - I am so much obliged" - bowing herself out, while Mirah, opening the door for her, wondered at her sudden chilly retreat.
