As she stood there she felt as if a
dreadful stranger had come into the room and was confronting her.
The accident, and the surgical treatment that had followed upon it, had
greatly altered the face. The nose, once fine and delicate, was now
coarse and misshapen. A wound had permanently distorted the mouth,
producing a strange, sneering expression. The whole of the right side of
the face was puffy and heavy-looking, and drawn down towards the chin. It
was also at present discoloured. For as Lady Holme lay under the car she
had been badly burnt. The raw, red tinge would no doubt fade away with
time, but the face must always remain unsightly, even a little grotesque,
must always show to the casual passer-by a woman who had been the victim
of a dreadful accident.
Lady Holme stared at this woman for a long time. There were no tears in
her eyes. Then she went to the dressing-table and began to make up her
face. Slowly, deliberately, with a despairing carefulness, she covered it
with pigments till she looked like a woman in Regent Street. Her face
became a frightful mask, and even then the fact that she was disfigured
was not concealed. The application of the pigments began to cause her
pain. The right side of her face throbbed. She looked dreadfully old,
too, with this mass of paint and powder upon her--like a hag, she
thought. And it was obvious that she was trying to hide something.
Anyone, man or woman, looking upon her, would divine that so much art
could only be used for the concealment of a dreadful disability.
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