Her features were drawn and pinched--she looked ten years older than she was.
Nothing remained of her beauty but her soft waving brown hair and her deep, pathetic, violet eyes.

Even her small hands seemed to have grown thin and looked unnaturally white and transparent.
She was sitting in her favourite chair by the fire, when the vicar arrived.

She had not been willing to seem ill, in spite of what Martha had said, and she had refused to put cushions in the chair.

She was making an effort, and even a little sense of physical discomfort helped to make the effort seem easier.

She was so much exhausted that she felt she must not for one moment relax the tension she imposed upon herself lest her whole remaining strength should suddenly collapse and leave her at the mercy of events.