The expression of the eyes was a rub of pastel from a master's thumb; the whole head, stamped with a sort of showy suffering, had gained a fineness from what she had passed through.
Yes, Flora was settled for life--nothing could hurt her further.

I foresaw the particular praise she would mostly incur--she would be invariably "interesting." She would charm with her pathos more even than she had charmed with her pleasure.

For herself above all she was fixed for ever, rescued from all change and ransomed from all doubt.

Her old certainties, her old vanities were justified and sanctified, and in the darkness that had closed upon her one object remained clear.

That object, as unfading as a mosaic mask, was fortunately the loveliest she could possibly look upon.