Edith, in her motionless beauty, propped on her cushions, had acquired a dominant yet passionless presence, as of some regal woman of the earth surrendered to a heavenly empire.

You could see that, however sanctified by suffering, Edith had still a placid mundane pleasure in her white wrapper of woollen gauze, and in her long lace scarf.

She wore them with an appearance of being dressed appropriately for a superb occasion.
The sign of her delicacy was in her hands, smoothed and wasted with inactivity.

Yet they had an energy of their own.

The hands and the weak, slender arms had a surprising way of leaping up to draw to her all beloved persons who bent above her couch.