She was beautiful — but especially she was without mercy. He must own that strength that could send him away.

She was one of the most unimportantly wicked women of her time - because she could not let her time alone, and yet could never be a part of it.

She was a very beautiful person who was missing something very ugly. Her winnings were the absence of something, and this quality hung around her.

She was dazzling — alight; it was agony to comprehend her beauty in a glance.

Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.

She was born without reason … to die; and she dies without reason….

she was no common girl, no toy of the passing hour.

She had an evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy; but her manners were excellent.

Her joke of a name aside, her general unprettiness aside, she was, in terms of permanently memorable, immoderately perceptive, small-area faces, a stunning and final girl.

She was beautiful all right, beautiful in a way that was at once seductive, demonic, and raspberry.

She was fierce, she was strong, she wasn’t simple. She was crazy and sometimes she barely slept. She always had something to say. She had flaws and that was ok. And when she was down, she got right back up. She was a beast in her own way, but one idea described her best.

She was unstoppable and she took anything she wanted with a smile.

She wasn't much to look at but she was something to think about.

Mercy without justice is the mother of dissolution; justice without mercy is cruelty.

She had no startling brilliancy of beauty, no pearly whiteness, no radiant carnation. She had not the majestic contour that rivets attention, demands instant wonder, and then disappoints by the coldness of its charms. You might pass Eleanor Harding in the street without notice, but you could hardly pass an evening with her and not lose your heart.