Her hair too was dark, brown-black, of great plenty, and so fine that it seemed to go off in a mist on the whiteness.

It had been her custom to throw it over the back of her bed, but in this old-fashioned one that was impossible, and it lay, in loveliest confusion, scattered here and there over pillow and coverlid, as if the wind had been tossing it all a long night at his will.

Some of it had strayed more than half way to the foot of the bed.
Her face, distorted almost though it was with distress, showed yet a regularity of feature rarely to be seen in combination with such evident power of expression.

Suffering had not yet flattened the delicate roundness of her cheek, or sharpened the angles of her chin.

In her whiteness, and her constrained, pang-thwarted motions from side to side, she looked like a form of marble in the agonies of coming to life at the prayer of some Pygmalion.