On either side of her face, making three-cornered her round, white forehead, hung the soft masses of her hair of gold.

Her hands hung limply at her sides.

But from between her parted lips--lips of almost an Egyptian fulness--her breath came slow and regular, and her eyes, heavy lidded, slanting upwards toward the temples, perplexing, oriental, were closed.

She was asleep.
From out this life of flowers, this world of colour, this atmosphere oppressive with perfume, this darkness clogged and cloyed, and thickened with sweet odours, she came to him.

She came to him from out of the flowers, the smell of the roses in her hair of gold, the aroma and the imperial red of the carnations in her lips, the whiteness of the lilies, the perfume of the lilies, and the lilies' slender, balancing grace in her neck.