She had sent a manservant and a maid out to look for him.

Dressed in a white gown, deeply embroidered, she was sitting in a corner of the terrace behind some flowers, and did not hear him.

Bending her curly black head, she pressed her forehead against a cool watering pot that stood on the parapet, and both her lovely hands, with the rings he knew so well, clasped the pot.

The beauty of her whole figure, her head, her neck, her hands, struck Vronsky every time as something new and unexpected.

He stood still, gazing at her in ecstasy.