Surely a young creature is pitiable who has the labyrinth of life before her and no clue--to whom distrust in herself and her good fortune has come as a sudden shock, like a rent across the path that she was treading carelessly.
In spite of her healthy frame, her irreconcilable repugnance affected her even physically; she felt a sort of numbness and could set about nothing; the least urgency, even that she should take her meals, was an irritation to her; the speech of others on any subject seemed unreasonable, because it did not include her feeling and was an ignorant claim on her. It was not in her nature to busy herself with the fancies of suicide to which disappointed young people are prone: what occupied and exasperated her was the sense that there was nothing for her but to live in a way she hated. She avoided going to the rectory again: it was too intolerable to have to look and talk as if she were compliant; and she could not exert herself to show interest about the furniture of that horrible cottage. Miss Merry was staying on purpose to help, and such people as Jocosa liked that sort of thing. Her mother had to make excuses for her not appearing, even when Anna came to see her. For that calm which Gwendolen had promised herself to maintain had changed into sick motivelessness: she thought, "I suppose I shall begin to pretend by-and-by, but why should I do it now?"
Her mother watched her with silent distress; and, lapsing into the habit of indulgent tenderness, she began to think what she imagined that Gwendolen was thinking, and to wish that everything should give way to the possibility of making her darling less miserable.
One day when she was in the black and yellow bedroom and her mother was lingering there under the pretext of considering and arranging Gwendolen's articles of dress, she suddenly roused herself to fetch the casket which contained the ornaments.

We should pity a young creature who has the labyrinth of life before her and no clue as to how to navigate it.
In spite of her healthy frame, she felt a sort of numbness and could set about nothing; the least urgency was an irritation to her; the speech of others on any subject seemed unreasonable, because it did not include her feeling. It was not in her nature to busy herself with fancies of suicide: what exasperated her was the sense that there was nothing for her but to live in a way she hated. She could not exert herself to visit the Gascoignes or to show interest about the furniture of the horrible cottage. Miss Merry was staying to help; such people as Jocosa liked that sort of thing. Her mother had to make excuses for her. The calm which Gwendolen had promised herself to maintain had changed into sick motivelessness: she thought, "I suppose I shall begin to pretend by-and-by, but why should I do it now?"
Her mother watched her with silent distress, wishing only that she could make her darling less miserable.
One day when Gwendolen was in the bedroom with her mother, she suddenly roused herself to fetch the casket which contained the ornaments.
