He looked at her as a man might look at a faded flower he had plucked, in which it was difficult for him to trace the beauty that had made him pick and so destroy it.
Vronsky la contemplaba como a una flor que, cortada por él mismo, se le hubiese marchitado entre las manos, y en la cual apenas se pudiese reconocer la belleza que incitara a cortarla.