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Updated: June 21, 2025
'It might not have been Winifred, I shouted. But no sooner had I done so than the scene in the studio Wilderspin's story of the model's terror on seeing my mother's portrait came upon me, and 'Dead! dead! rang through me like a funeral knell: all the superstructure of Hope's sophisms was shattered in a moment like a house of cards: my imagination flew away to all the London graveyards I had ever heard of; and there, in the part divided by the pauper line, my soul hovered over a grave newly made, and then dived down from coffin to coffin, one piled above another, till it reached Winifred, lying pressed down by the superincumbent mass; those eyes staring.
Mademoiselle de Corandeuil greeted the Vicomte's words indulgently; for, from consummate pride, she separated herself from other women. "So then," said she, "you pretend that if to-day love is painted under false and vulgar colors, the fault is the model's, not the artist's."
I watched for the effect of this sudden change of programme, when it should reach the calm stillness of the Model's interior apprehension, as a boy watches for the splash of a stone which he has dropped into a well.
"Let us go in here" they were passing a confectioner's "and we'll have some jam-puffs." Paul went to his friend Rowlatt, who had already heard, through one of his assistants who had a friend in the Life School, of the dramatic end of the model's career. "I quite sympathize with you," Rowlatt laughed. "I've wondered how you stuck it so long. What are you going to do now?" "I'm going on the stage."
At five o'clock there was invariably a sound of plates and cups, and out of it the little model's voice would rise, matter-of-fact, soft, monotoned, making little statements; and in turn Mr. Stone's, also making statements which clearly lacked cohesion with those of his young friend. On one occasion, the door being open, Hilary heard distinctly the following conversation: The LITTLE MODEL: "Mr.
As if he were capable of thinking of anything but art with a palette in his hand! One afternoon, when Josephina suddenly came into the studio she saw on the model's platform a naked woman, lying in some furs, showing the curves of her yellow back. The wife compressed her lips and pretended not to see her, listened to Renovales with a distracted air, as he explained this innovation.
"I've no doubt you would, but you're not going to get it," said Lewis, calmly, as he went about the business of brewing tea. Vi finished her first cup, and asked for a second. "It's quite a bracer, after all," she said. "I feel a lot better." She rose and went to the model's throne at one side of the room. "Is this where they stand?" she asked. Lewis nodded.
She posed with absolute self-possession before the stricken buyer, who stood, tongue-tied and motionless, while Zizzbaum orated oilily of the styles. On the model's face was her faint, impersonal professional smile that seemed to cover something like weariness or contempt. When the display was over Platt seemed to hesitate.
She was not in her attic; nor did she return that night, nor the next day, nor yet the following; and it was to tell of the model's disappearance, and to ask aid in tracing her, that Herman had wished to speak to Helen at the Fenton's reception. UPON A CHURCH BENCH. Much Ado about Nothing; iii. 3.
In every couple of those men and women Hilary seemed to see the Hughs, that other married couple, going home to wedded happiness above the little model's head. The cab turned out of the gay alley. "Enough, please, of these people!" That same night, past one o'clock, he was roused from sleep by hearing bolts drawn back. He got up, hastened to the window, and looked out.
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