Black hills, black hollows, black future, black world, black hearts--everything matches--everything's black.

Sky's black, I'm black--you're black--little black shack won't have to stand all alone any more--little black shack's just black ashes--little black shack's all burnt up!" And then the woman laughed shrilly, with that terrible, meaningless laughter of hysteria.
She was a pretty woman, and young.

Her hair was that bright shade of red that goes with a skin like thin, rose-tinted ivory.

Her eyes were big and so dark a blue that they sometimes looked black, and her mouth was sweet and had a tired droop to match the mute pathos of her eyes.

Her husband was a coarse lout of a man who seldom spoke to her when they were together.