It was a face of girlish, saintly purity, of fairest loveliness--a face where innocence, poetry, and passion all seemed to blend in one grand harmony.

There was nothing commonplace about it.

One could not mistake it for a plebeian face; "patrician" was written on every feature.
Lord Arleigh looked at her like one in a dream.
"If she had an aureole round her head, I should take her for an angel," he thought to himself, and stood watching her.
The same secret subtle harmony pervaded[4] every action; each new attitude seemed to be the one that suited her best.

If she raised her arms, she looked like a statue.

Her hands were white and delicate, as though carved in ivory.