There were heavy lines under the eyes.

The eyes looked steadily in front of him, plunged deep in a past which had something of the irrevocable tenderness of the dawn in it, the holy reflection of an inalienable love.
He did not stir as his wife came in.

His eyes only moved, resting upon her for a moment, focussing her with difficulty, as if withdrawn from something at a great distance, and then they turned once more to the window.
A pale primrose light had risen above the blue tangled mist of ilexes and olives.

The cypresses stood half-veiled in mist, half-sharply clear against the stainless pallor of the upper sky.
"I am so miserable, Andrea." He did not speak.
"I cannot sleep." Still no answer.
"I am convinced that Michael is innocent." "It goes without saying." "Then they can't convict him, can they ?" "They will convict him," said the duke, and for a moment he bent his eyes upon her.

"Has he not accused himself ?" "They won't--hang him ?" The duke shrugged his shoulders.