Gwendolen, in fact, never showed more elasticity in her bearing, more lustre in her long brown glance: she had the brilliancy of strong excitement, which will sometimes come even from pain. It was not pain, however, that she was feeling: she had wrought herself up to much the same condition as that in which she stood at the gambling-table when Deronda was looking at her, and she began to lose. There was an enjoyment in it: whatever uneasiness a growing conscience had created was disregarded as an ailment might have been, amidst the gratification of that ambitious vanity and desire for luxury within her which it would take a great deal of slow poisoning to kill. This morning she could not have said truly that she repented her acceptance of Grandcourt, or that any fears in hazy perspective could hinder the glowing effect of the immediate scene in which she was the central object. That she was doing something wrong--that a punishment might be hanging over her--that the woman to whom she had given a promise and broken it, was thinking of her in bitterness and misery with a just reproach--that Deronda with his way of looking into things very likely despised her for marrying Grandcourt, as he had despised her for gambling--above all, that the cord which united her with this lover and which she had heretofore held by the hand, was now being flung over her neck,--all this yeasty mingling of dimly understood facts with vague but deep impressions, and with images half real, half fantastic, had been disturbing her during the weeks of her engagement. Was that agitating experience nullified this morning? No: it was surmounted and thrust down with a sort of exulting defiance as she felt herself standing at the game of life with many eyes upon her, daring everything to win much--or if to lose, still with _clat_ and a sense of importance. But this morning a losing destiny for herself did not press upon her as a fear: she thought that she was entering on a fuller power of managing circumstances--with all the official strength of marriage, which some women made so poor a use of. That intoxication of youthful egoism out of which she had been shaken by trouble, humiliation, and a new sense of culpability, had returned upon her under a newly-fed strength of the old fumes. She did not in the least present the ideal of the tearful, tremulous bride. 
Gwendolen, in fact, never showed more spring in her step, more lustre in her eyes: she had the brilliancy of strong excitement. She had wrought herself up to much the same condition as that in which she stood at the gambling-table when Deronda was looking at her, and she began to lose. There was an enjoyment in it: the uneasiness of her growing conscience was disregarded, amidst the gratification of her ambitious vanity and desire for luxury. This morning she could not have said truly that she repented her acceptance of Grandcourt, or that any hazy fears marred the glowing scene in which she was the central object.
That she was doing something wrong - that a punishment might be hanging over her - that Deronda very likely despised her for marrying Grandcourt, as he had despised her for gambling - above all, that the cord which united her with this lover and which she had until now held by the hand, was now being flung over her neck - all these dimly understood facts and vague impressions had been disturbing her during the weeks of her engagement. But this morning that agitation was thrust down with exulting defiance as she felt herself standing at the game of life with many eyes upon her, daring everything to win - or if to lose, to lose with clat and importance.
But this morning she did not fear a losing destiny: she thought that she was entering on a fuller power of managing circumstances. The youthful egoism out of which she had been shaken by trouble, humiliation, and a sense of culpability, had returned to her with newly-fed strength. She did not in the least appear a tearful, tremulous bride. 