Sir Florian had not known whether to do the one thing or the other, and had therefore seized her in his arms.

Her face was oval,--somewhat longer than an oval,--with little in it, perhaps nothing in it, of that brilliancy of colour which we call complexion.

And yet the shades of her countenance were ever changing between the softest and most transparent white, and the richest, mellowest shades of brown.

It was only when she simulated anger,--she was almost incapable of real anger,--that she would succeed in calling the thinnest streak of pink from her heart, to show that there was blood running in her veins.
Her hair, which was nearly black,--but in truth with more of softness and of lustre than ever belong to hair that is really black,--she wore bound tight round her perfect forehead, with one long love-lock hanging over her shoulder.

The form of her head was so good that she could dare to carry it without a chignon, or any adventitious adjuncts from an artiste's shop.