She appeared much older, as though her age had been doubled by her tears.
The brutal blow had made her freshness and her marvelous youth flit away with doleful suddenness.

Her half-opened eyes were encircled with temporary wrinkles.

Her nose had taken on the livid sharpness of the dead; her great mass of hair, reddening under the blow, was disheveled in golden, undulating tangles.

Something black was winding through it making streaks upon the silk of the cushion.

It was the blood that was dribbling between the heraldic flowers of the embroidery,--blood flowing from the hidden forehead, being absorbed by the dryness of the soft material.
Upon making this discovery, Ferragut felt his shame increasing.