She struck her forehead with her clenched fists.

Her little body shook from head to foot with the violence of her sobbing.

She ground her small teeth together and beat her head upon the floor with all her strength.
Her hair was uncoiled and hanging a tangled, dishevelled mass far below her waist; her dress was torn; a spot of blood was upon her forehead; her eyes were swollen; her cheeks flamed vermilion from the fever that raged in her veins.

Old Miss Baker found her thus towards five o'clock the next morning.
What had happened between one o'clock and dawn of that fearful night Trina never remembered.

She could only recall herself, as in a picture, kneeling before her broken and rifled trunk, and then--weeks later, so it seemed to her--she woke to find herself in her own bed with an iced bandage about her forehead and the little old dressmaker at her side, stroking her hot, dry palm.
The facts of the matter were that the German woman who lived below had been awakened some hours after midnight by the sounds of Trina's weeping.