She was flawless, irreproachable, except for the knowledge of her beauty, through heredity, in her heart, which was older than she herself.
Suddenly Maria, after a long gaze of rapture at her face in the glass, gave a great start.

She turned and saw her mother standing in the door looking at her.
Maria, with an involuntary impulse of concealment, seized her brush, and began brushing her hair.

"I was just brushing my hair," she murmured.

She felt as guilty as if she had committed a crime.
Her mother continued to look at her sternly.

"There isn't any use in your trying to deceive me, Maria," said she.