She had, under his present observation of her, beauty, with the lines of her face breaking in revolt from beauty--or requiring a superterrestrial illumination to show the harmony.

He, as he now saw, had erred grossly in supposing her insensitive, and therefore slow of a woman's understanding.

She drew the breath of pain through the lips: red lips and well cut.

Her brown eyes were tearless, not alluring or beseeching or repelling; they did but look, much like the skies opening high aloof on a wreck of storm.

Her reddish hair-chestnut, if you will--let fall a skein over one of the rugged brows, and softened the ruggedness by making it wilder, as if a great bird were winging across a shoulder of the mountain ridges.
Conceived of the mountains, built in their image, the face partook alternately of mountain terror or splendour; wholly, he remembered, of the splendour when her blood ran warm.