She looked for all the world like one of the Paris fashion prints, for she was a parfect pictur', that's a fact.
Her complexion was made of white and red roses, mixed so beautiful, you couldn't tell where the white eended, or the red begun, natur' had used the blendin' brush so delicate.

Her eyes were screw augurs, I tell _you_; they bored right into your heart, and kinder agitated you, and made your breath come and go, and your pulse flutter.

I never felt nothin' like 'em.

When lit up, they sparkled like lamp reflectors; and at other tunes, they was as soft, and mild, and clear as dew-drops that hang on the bushes at sun-rise.

When she loved, she loved; and when she hated, she hated about the wickedest you ever see.