She was of pale complexion, and had golden hair; it was plaited in one braid, which fell to her waist.

Like Lydia's, her eyes were large and full of light; every line of the face was delicate, harmonious, sweet; each thought that passed through her mind reflected itself in a change of expression, produced one knew not how, one phase melting into another like flitting lights upon a stream in woodland.

It was a subtly morbid physiognomy, and impressed one with a sense of vague trouble.
There was none of the spontaneous pleasure in life which gave Lydia's face such wholesome brightness; no impulse of activity, no resolve; all tended to preoccupation, to emotional reverie.

She had not yet completed her seventeenth year, and there was still something of childhood in her movements.

Her form was slight, graceful, and of lower stature than her sister's.