It seemed that even her great
movement, the turning of her head, the ungloving of her hand.
life so free from self, so simple, so absorbed, that all trace of
her own child.html">child.
As we were once thus employed in the studio, I asked Kenmure,
giving Laura. "Madame Recamier was not quite pleased," I said,
never shrink from permitting irreverent eyes to look on Laura's
them her miniature, perhaps to go with them into scenes of riot
could save them, if that did not? God lets his sun shine on the
had been many times upon my lips unspoken.
"Does it never occur to you," I said, "that Laura cannot live on
with a set, stern look, as if fencing for the hundredth time
end. "Laura will outlive me; she must outlive me. I am so sure of
paralyzed, and die outside her arms.html">arms. Yet, in any event, what can
perpetuation of her beauty? It is my only dream,--to re-create
tried-through sculpture, through painting, through verse--to
Is it because I have not lived a life sufficiently absorbed in
has reclaimed her, the tradition of her perfect loveliness may be
in, the low and level rays of yellow sunset entered as softly as
sweeter than light or air, little Marian stood on the threshold.
breeze-blown hair a wreath of the wild gerardia blossoms, whose
heather. In her arms the child bore, like a little gleaner, a
bear. In all the artist's visions he had seen nothing.html">nothing so aerial,
delineated nothing so like to her. Marian's cheeks mantled.
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