Her forehead was high, and her eyebrows marked with beautiful clearness.

Her straight, well-formed nose, her finely-cut mouth, and the graceful contour of her head and neck, showed that she must once have been beautiful; but her face was deeply wrinkled with lines of pain, and of proud and bitter endurance.
Her complexion was sallow and unhealthy, her cheeks thin, her features sharp, and her whole form emaciated.

But her eye was the most remarkable feature,--so large, so heavily black, overshadowed by long lashes of equal darkness, and so wildly, mournfully despairing.

There was a fierce pride and defiance in every line of her face, in every curve of the flexible lip, in every motion of her body; but in her eye was a deep, settled night of anguish,--an expression so hopeless and unchanging as to contrast fearfully with the scorn and pride expressed by her whole demeanor.
Where she came from, or who she was, Tom did not know.

The first he did know, she was walking by his side, erect and proud, in the dim gray of the dawn.