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time met in London the Marchesa di Mentoni, (who for some years previous
to her marriage had resided in that city,) when his answer, if I mistake
not, gave me to understand that he had never visited the metropolis of
Great Britain. I might as (without, of course, giving credit to a report
involving so many improbabilities,) that the person of whom I speak, was
not only by birth, but in education, an Englishman.
*
* * * *
"There is one painting," said he, without being aware of my notice of
the tragedy--"there is still one painting which you have not seen." And
throwing aside a drapery, he discovered a full-length portrait of the
Marchesa Aphrodite.
Human art could have done no more in the delineation of her
superhuman beauty. The same ethereal figure which stood before me the
preceding night upon the steps of the Ducal Palace, stood before me once
again. But in the expression of the countenance, which was beaming all
over with smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensible anomaly!) that
fitful stain of melancholy which will ever be found inseparable from the
perfection of the beautiful. Her right arm lay folded over her bosom.
With her left she pointed downward to a curiously fashioned vase.
One small, fairy foot, alone visible, barely touched the earth; and,
scarcely discernible in the brilliant atmosphere which seemed to
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