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"She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of
glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the
painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride
in his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full
of glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn; loving
and cherishing all things; hating only the Art which was her rival;
dreading only the pallet and brushes and other untoward instruments
which deprived her of the countenance of her lover. It was thus a
terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to
portray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat
meekly for many weeks in the dark, high turret-chamber where the light
dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter,
took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour, and from day to
day. And he was a passionate, and wild, and moody man, who became lost
in reveries; so that he would not see that the light which fell so
ghastly in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his
bride, who pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on,
uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter (who had high renown)
took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and
night to depict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispirited
and weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its
resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not less of
the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted
so surpassingly well. But at length, as the labor drew nearer to its
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