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She knew
that she was plain, and had sometimes, very simply, regretted it. But
she did not generally think about her appearance, and very seldom now
wondered what others were thinking of it. When Maurice had been with
her she had often indeed secretly compared her ugliness with his
beauty. But a great love breeds many regrets as well as many joys. And
that was long ago. It was years since she had looked at herself in the
glass with any keen feminine anxiety, any tremor of fear, or any cruel
self-criticism. But now she stood for a long time before the glass,
quite still, looking at her reflection with wide, almost with staring,
eyes.
It was true what Gaspare said. She saw that she was looking ill, very
different from her usual strong self. There was not a thread of white
in her thick hair, and this fact, combined with the eagerness of her
expression, the strong vivacity and intelligence that normally shone
in her eyes, deceived many people as to her age. But to-day her face
was strained, haggard, and feverish.


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