At the sound of her voice he raised his eyes from the ground, and fixed them on her countenance with a look so full of an imploring and earnest meaning, so expressive of the passion, the suspense of his heart, that Constance felt her voice cease at once.

But he saw as he gazed how powerful had been his influence.

Not a vestige of bloom was on her cheek: her very lips were colourless: her eyes were swollen with weeping; and though she seemed very calm and self-possessed, all her wonted majesty of mien was gone.

The form seemed to shrink within itself.

Humbleness and sorrow--deep, passionate, but quiet sorrow--had supplanted the haughtiness and the elastic freshness of her beauty.