The loosened hair clustered over her ears--soft silk of gold; his hands touched it.

Where a few curls fell out, and the candle-light struck through them, the hair was pale yellow--champagne held up to the sun.
Presently, he picked up her hand, the arm hanging a dead weight from her shoulder, the knuckles touching the floor.

His fingers closed over the pulse to find it faintly beating.

He had been a fool to let her stand there and watch the fight.

He might have known.