There was a frightened look in her dilated eyes.

Her face was flooded to the roots of her hair with a deep flush.

It was a crimson most unlike the tint of blissful shame with which the cheeks announce love's dawn in happy hearts.

She threw herself upon the sofa, and buried her scorched face in the pillow while her form shook with dry sobs.
Love had, in a moment, stripped the protecting cicatrice of a hard indifference from her smarting shame, and it was as if for the first time she were made fully conscious of the desperation of her condition.
The maiden who finds her stainless purity all too lustreless a gift for him she loves, may fancy what were the feelings of Madeline, as love, with its royal longing to give, was born in her heart.

With what lilies of virgin innocence would she fain have rewarded her lover! but her lilies were yellow, their fragrance was stale.