She was thin, yet not without a certain buoyant lightness of movement always at variance with her tired eyes, her ceaseless air of dejection.

And withal she was a rebel.

It was written in her attitude, it was evident in her lowering, militant expression, the smouldering fire in her eyes proclaimed it.

Her long, rather narrow face was gripped between her hands; her elbows rested upon the brick parapet.

She gazed at that world of blood-red mists, of unshapely, grotesque buildings, of strange, tawdry colors; she listened to the medley of sounds--crude, shrill, insistent, something like the groaning of a world stripped naked--and she had all the time the air of one who hates the thing she looks upon.
Tavernake, whose curiosity concerning his companion remained unappeased, decided that the moment for speech had arrived.