Her face, lying between her arms, with her hands clasped above her head, was deadly pale, and wore an expression of frigid rigidity.

Therese was musing.

Her fixed eyes resembled dark, unfathomable depths, where naught was visible save night.

She did not move, she did not cast a glance at Laurent, who stood erect behind her.
Her sweetheart contemplated her, and was almost affrighted to see her so motionless and mute.

He would have liked to have bent forward, and closed those great open eyes with a kiss.