Her hair was black, her face of a clear pallor which her hair made yet more pale.

Her eyes matched her hair, and were so bright and quick a starry spark seemed to glow in the depths of them.
She was a poet's simile for night.
The Chevalier ended and sat with his eyes turned away.

Maria Vittoria did not change her attitude, nor for a while did she answer, but the tears gathered in her eyes and welled over.

They ran down her cheeks; she did not wipe them away, she did not sob, nor did her face alter from its fixity.

She did not even close her eyes.