Nor did he glance at Adrienne, whose face took on as great pallor as her brown complexion could show.
Beverley ate but little of the food.

He sat apart on a piece of timber that projected from the rough breastwork and gave himself over to infinite misery of spirit, which was trebled when he took Alice's locket from his bosom, only to discover that the bullet which struck him had almost entirely destroyed the face of the miniature.
He gripped the dinted and twisted case and gazed at it with the stare of a blind man.

His heart almost ceased to beat and his breath had the rustling sound we hear when a strong man dies of a sudden wound.
Somehow the defacement of the portrait was taken by his soul as the final touch of fate, signifying that Alice was forever and completely obliterated from his life.

He felt a blur pass over his mind.

He tried in vain to recall the face and form so dear to him; he tried to imagine her voice; but the whole universe was a vast hollow silence.