The lips were coral crimson and--asleep.

Sweet were those lips as ever master painter, dreaming his dream of the very soul of woman's sweetness, saw in vision and limned upon his canvas--and asleep, nor wistful for awakening.
A proud, straight nose; a broad low brow, and over it the masses of the tendriling tresses--tawny, lustrous topaz, cloudy, METALLIC.

Like spun silk of ruddy copper; and misty as the wisps of cloud that Soul'tze, Goddess of Sleep, sets in the skies of dawn to catch the wandering dreams of lovers.
Down from the wondrous face melted the rounded column of her throat to merge into exquisite curves of shoulders and breasts, half revealed beneath the swathing veils.
But upon that face, within her eyes, kissing her red lips and clothing her breasts, was something unearthly.
Something that came straight out of the still mysteries of the star-filled spaces; out of the ordered, the untroubled, the illimitable void.
A passionless spirit that watched over the human passion in the scarlet mouth, in every slumbering, sculptured line of her--guarding her against its awakening.
Twilight calm dropping down from the sun sleep to still the restless mountain tarn.

Ishtar dreamlessly asleep within Nirvana.
Something not of this world we know--and yet of it as the winds of the Cosmos are to the summer breeze, the ocean to the wave, the lightnings to the glowworm.
"She isn't--human," I heard Ventnor whispering at my ear.

"Look at her eyes; look at the skin of her--" Her skin was white as milk of pearls; gossamer fine, silken and creamy; translucent as though a soft brilliancy dwelt within it.