In another moment I was in the presence of Hedwig von Lira.

The man retired and left us.
She stood, dressed in black, against the rough stone; the strong light of a gorgeous gilt lamp that was placed on the floor streamed upward on her white face.

Her eyes caught the brightness, and seemed to burn like deep, dark gems, though they appeared so blue in the day.

She looked like a person tortured past endurance, so that the pain of the soul has taken shape, and the agony of the heart has assumed substance.

Tears shed had hollowed the marble cheeks, and the stronger suffering that cannot weep had chiselled out great shadows beneath her brows.