Exactly as Doctor Wybrow passed his consulting-room, the door opened--the lady appeared on the threshold--and laid her hand on his arm.
'I entreat you, sir, not to go away without letting me speak to you first.' The accent was foreign; the tone was low and firm.

Her fingers closed gently, and yet resolutely, on the Doctor's arm.
Neither her language nor her action had the slightest effect in inclining him to grant her request.

The influence that instantly stopped him, on the way to his carriage, was the silent influence of her face.

The startling contrast between the corpse-like pallor of her complexion and the overpowering life and light, the glittering metallic brightness in her large black eyes, held him literally spell-bound.

She was dressed in dark colours, with perfect taste; she was of middle height, and (apparently) of middle age--say a year or two over thirty.
Her lower features--the nose, mouth, and chin--possessed the fineness and delicacy of form which is oftener seen among women of foreign races than among women of English birth.