How about the pregnant pause after a heavy sigh which swells her bosom like a ship being tossed about on the sea of wretchedness; a sigh full of longing or giving up or giving in.

Moving on from the sigh, there's the bated breath,or the heaving which writhes about in the fog of the early mornng dew or the late night fog of Londontown, filling up every crevice, revealing nothing until the passion of the moment is rent by a scream of terror/anger/murder.

As for the hair, don't forget to have him clutch those golden tresses as her lifeblood slips away, or while he bends her back, exposing her virginal white neck, as he watches a thin line of blood stain as her life ebbs slowing away, victim of his oh so sharp knife; or, having her take out her locket, open it up and fondle the small strand of his hair she keeps next to her bosom while she pines away for her sailor-O!