Lalie was bare, with only the remnants of a camisole on her shoulders by way of chemise; yes, bare, with the grievous, bleeding nudity of a martyr.

She had no flesh left; her bones seemed to protrude through the skin.

From her ribs to her thighs there extended a number of violet stripes--the marks of the whip forcibly imprinted on her.

A livid bruise, moreover, encircled her left arm, as if the tender limb, scarcely larger than a lucifer, had been crushed in a vise.

There was also an imperfectly closed wound on her right leg, left there by some ugly blow and which opened again and again of a morning, when she went about doing her errands.