To me she looked more Italian or Spanish than Anglo-Saxon, and I believe that, as a matter of fact, she had some southern blood in her on her father's side.

She wore a dress of soft rose colour, and her only ornaments were a string of pearls and a single red camellia.

I could see but one blemish, if it were a blemish, in her perfect person, and that was a curious white mark upon her breast, which in its shape exactly resembled the crescent moon.
The face, however, impressed me with other than its physical qualities.
It was bright, intelligent, sympathetic and, just now, happy.

But I thought it more, I thought it mystical.

Something that her mother said to her, probably about her dress, caused her smile to vanish for a moment, and then, from beneath it as it were, appeared this shadow of innate mysticism.