And it seemed that Sor Teresa--known in the world as Dolores Sarrion--had, like many women, bestowed a thwarted love--faute de mieux--upon her brother.
"You are well ?" asked Sarrion, looking at her closely.

Her face, framed by a spotless cap, was gray and drawn, but not unhappy.
She nodded her head with a smile, while her eyes flitted over his face and person with that quick interrogation which serves better than words.
A woman never asks minutely after the health of one in whom she is really interested.

She knows without asking.

She stood before him with her hands crossed within the folds of her ample sleeves.

Her face was lost again in the encircling shadow of her cap and veil.