Laertes leans back to touch her cheek--and as he looks over Ophelia's face, he realizes that it isn't only that she's more vivid in real life than she was in his memory. Her eyelids have been dusted with a deep bruise-violet, her lips painted dark and sharp-edged (their sharp edges mussed in places, and doesn't that speak volumes). He touches his thumb to one of the places where her lipstick has smeared, and he clenches down on the anger that wells in him like an unholy spring. "Thou hast not failed him," he says softly. "He has failed thee."