Deep, bitter sobs shook her whole frame; from her white lips came a low moan that betokened anguish too great for words.

Then, when the passion of grief had subsided and she was exhausted, she rose and stood erect.

Then one saw how superbly beautiful she was, although her face was stained with tears.
She was still young, not more than three-and-twenty; her figure was of rarest symmetry; when the great world knew her it had been accustomed to say that her figure resembled that of the celebrated Diana for the Louvre; there was the marvelous, free-spirited grace and matchless perfection.
She had the face and head of a young queen, a face of peerless beauty; a white, broad brow that might have worn a crown; eyes of the dark hue of the violets, with long fringes that rested on a cheek perfect in shape and color; brows straight, like those of a Greek goddess; lips sweet and proud--they were white now, and quivering, but the beauty of the mouth was unchanged.
So she stood in all the splendor of her grand loveliness.

There is over her whole figure and face that indescribable something which tells that she is wife and mother both, that look of completed life.
The hands, so tightly clasped, are white and slender.

There is no attribute of womanly loveliness that does not belong to her.
After a time she went to the window.