She was not broken down--on the contrary, she was calm--stoically, tragically, pitiably calm; with that ghastly calmness which is more terrible by far than the most demonstrative grief.

Her face, though deadly white, did not move a muscle.

Not a tear was in her eyes.

Even her bloodless hands hardly twitched at the folds of her hastily assumed black gown.

She clenched them after a minute when she had grasped mine silently; I could see that the nails dug deep into the palms in her painful resolve to keep herself from collapsing.
Hilda Wade, with infinite sisterly tenderness, led her over to a chair by the window in the summer twilight, and took one quivering hand in hers.