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Her face was no more than a mask of misery.
Yet, the shrewd observer, if a lover of beauty, might have found
much for delight, even despite the concealment imposed by her
present condition. Thus, the stormy glory of her dark hair,
great masses that ran a riot of shining ripples and waves. And
the straight line of the nose, not too thin, yet fine enough for
the rapture of a Praxiteles. And the pink daintiness of the
ear-tips, which peered warmly from beneath the pall of tresses.
One could know nothing accurately of the complexion now. But it
were easy to guess that in happier places it would show of a
purity to entice, with a gentle blooming of roses in the cheeks.
Even in this hour of unmitigated evil, the lips revealed a
curving beauty of red--not quite crimson, though near enough for
the word; not quite scarlet either; only, a red gently
enchanting, which turned one's thoughts toward tenderness--with a
hint of desire. It was, too, a generous mouth, not too large;
still, happily, not so small as those modeled by Watteau.


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