Her braided brown hair had been coiled so hastily, so thoughtlessly that stray strands fell loose about her neck and ears to be blown gaily by the breeze across her cheek.

Her blouse was open at the neck, her blue serge jacket flared in the wind.

Every vestige of the warm, soft colour had left her face.

She was deathly pale with emotion.
Percival was suddenly conscious of a mist bedimming his eyes.
Several people were grouped near them at the rail, listening to Nicklestick.

The stowaway joined them.