Her
face was oval--somewhat longer than an oval--with little in it, perhaps
nothing in it, of that brilliancy of colour which we call complexion. And
yet the shades of her countenance were ever changing between the softest
and most transparent white and the richest, mellowest shades of brown. It
was only when she simulated anger--she was almost incapable of real anger
--that she would succeed in calling the thinnest streak of pink from her
heart, to show that there was blood running in her veins. Her hair, which
was nearly black, but in truth with more of softness and of lustre than
ever belong to hair that is really black, she wore bound tight round her
perfect forehead, with one long lovelock hanging over her shoulder. The
form of her head was so good that she could dare to carry it without a
chignon or any adventitious adjuncts from an artist's shop. Very bitter
was she in consequence when speaking of the head-gear of other women. Her
chin was perfect in its round--not over long, as is the case with so many
such faces, utterly spoiling the symmetry of the countenance. But it
lacked a dimple, and therefore lacked feminine tenderness.
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