With a face like that, she was obviously a Toreador, the pale contours of her cheeks, the hair like bleeding autumn, the ambrosial temptations of ripe lips, the eyes of a siren carved from sea glass. She was everything, and nothing, just another pretty portrait in a gallery of them, a rose in a Brobdingnagian bouquet. No need to look closer, deeper, longer than passing admiration. But if you did, how forever changed your soul might be. How shaped it might feel like wet clay in the cold claws of one unnameable, how new you might become.
Count Kras and Lenora