Wherever I turned it looked
out at me from the shadows. I am not naturally fanciful, and the
work I was engaged upon--the writing of a farcical comedy--was not
of the kind to excite the dreamy side of a man's nature. I grew
angry with myself, and made a further effort to fix my mind upon
the paper in front of me. But my thoughts refused to return from
their wanderings. Once, glancing back over my shoulder, I could
have sworn I saw the original of the picture sitting in the big
chintz-covered chair in the far corner. It was dressed in a faded
lilac frock, trimmed with some old lace, and I could not help
noticing the beauty of the folded hands, though in the portrait
only the head and shoulders had been drawn.
Next morning I had forgotten the incident, but with the lighting of
the lamp the memory of it awoke within me, and my interest grew so
strong that again I took the miniature from its hiding-place and
looked at it.
And then the knowledge suddenly came to me that I knew the face.
Where had I seen her, and when? I had met her and spoken to her.
The picture smiled at me, as if rallying me on my forgetfulness.
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