She was death itself--the companion of life.
Mrs Verloc, as if relieved by the outburst, was very far from behaving noisily now.

She was pitiful.
"Tom, you can't throw me off now," she murmured from the floor.

"Not unless you crush my head under your heel.

I won't leave you." "Get up," said Ossipon.
His face was so pale as to be quite visible in the profound black darkness of the shop; while Mrs Verloc, veiled, had no face, almost no discernible form.

The trembling of something small and white, a flower in her hat, marked her place, her movements.
It rose in the blackness.