The door flew open, and she stood motionless a moment on the threshold.

Mendoza had said that Don John was dead, but she had not quite believed it.
He lay on his back as he had fallen, his feet towards her, his graceful limbs relaxed, one arm beside him, the other thrown back beyond his head, the colourless fingers just bent a little and showing the nervous beauty of the hand.

The beautiful young face was white as marble, and the eyes were half open, very dark under the waxen lids.

There was one little spot of scarlet on the white satin coat, near the left breast.
Dolores saw it all in the bright light of the candles, and she neither moved nor closed her fixed eyes as she gazed.

She felt that she was at the end of life; she stood still to see it all and to understand.