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The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It was a
mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed a vignette
manner; much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully. The arms, the
bosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair melted imperceptibly into
the vague yet deep shadow which formed the back-ground of the whole. The
frame was oval, richly gilded and filigreed in Moresque. As a thing of
art nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself. But it
could have been neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal
beauty of the countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved
me. Least of all, could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its half
slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw at
once that the peculiarities of the design, of the vignetting, and of the
frame, must have instantly dispelled such idea--must have prevented even
its momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon these points, I
remained, for an hour perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with my
vision riveted upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the true
secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell
of the picture in an absolute life-likeliness of expression, which, at
first startling, finally confounded, subdued, and appalled me. With deep
and reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its former position. The
cause of my deep agitation being thus shut from view, I sought eagerly
the volume which discussed the paintings and their histories. Turning
to the number which designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague
and quaint words which follow:
357
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