She looked out; her anger was gone, her emotion also seemed gone.
She stood there smiling, very kindly but with mockery.

She held in either hand a flower.

One she smelt and held her face long to it, as though its sweetness kept her senses willing prisoners; turning to the other, she smelt it for a short instant and then drew away, her face, that told every mood with unfailing aptness, twisted into disappointment or disgust.

She leant out looking down on me; now behind her shoulder I saw the King's black face, half-hidden by the hangings of the window.
She glanced at the first flower, then at the second, held up both her hands for a moment, turned for an instant with a coquettish smile towards the swarthy face behind, then handed the first flower with a laugh into a hand that was stretched out for it, and flung the second down to me.

As it floated through the air, the wind disengaged its loose petals and they drifted away, some reaching ground, some caught by gusts and carried away, circling, towards the house-tops.