Beneath the small round hat, her hair, glossy with brilliantine, was like melted gold in the large loose waves which revealed the rosy tips of her ears.

She was thirty-nine, and she looked scarcely a day over twenty-five.

The peach-blossom texture of her skin was as unlined by care or pain as if she had spent the last ten years immured in a convent; for in this case, at least, Gabriella realized while she looked at her, the retribution which awaits upon sinners had been tardy in its fulfilment.
As she moved toward her, without noticing the friendly hand that Florrie held out, Gabriella was conscious of an ironical inclination to laugh.
Though she felt no bitter personal resentment against Florrie--for, after all, Florrie had not been able to hurt her--there struggled in her bosom an indignation more profound, more moving, than any merely personal emotion could be.

Her resentment was directed not against Florrie, but against some abstract destiny which had permitted Florrie to have her way without paying the price.

For on the pinnacle of a destructive career, unsinged by the conflagration she had so carelessly started, Florrie was poised securely, crowned, triumphant, rejoicing.