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It was a period when a queen, thinking that she should be damned,
pictured hell to herself as a bed with coarse sheets.[20]
A dressing-gown, of curious silk, was thrown over the foot of the couch.
It was apparently Chinese; for a great golden lizard was partly visible
in between the folds.
Beyond the couch, and probably masking a door, was a large mirror, on
which were painted peacocks and swans.
Shadow seemed to lose its nature in this apartment, and glistened. The
spaces between the mirrors and the gold work were lined with that
sparkling material called at Venice thread of glass--that is, spun
glass.
At the head of the couch stood a reading desk, on a movable pivot, with
candles, and a book lying open, bearing this title, in large red
letters, "Alcoranus Mahumedis."
Gwynplaine saw none of these details. He had eyes only for the woman. He
was at once stupefied and filled with tumultuous emotions, states
apparently incompatible, yet sometimes co-existent. He recognized her.
Her eyes were closed, but her face was turned towards him. It was the
duchess--she, the mysterious being in whom all the splendours of the
unknown were united; she who had occasioned him so many unavowable
dreams; she who had written him so strange a letter! The only woman in
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