It lay rather, if it can be said to have
had any fixed abiding place, in a visible majesty, in an imperial grace,
in a godlike stamp of softened power, which shone upon that radiant
countenance like a living halo. Never before had I guessed what beauty
made sublime could be--and yet, the sublimity was a dark one--the glory
was not all of heaven--though none the less was it glorious. Though
the face before me was that of a young woman of certainly not more than
thirty years, in perfect health, and the first flush of ripened beauty,
yet it had stamped upon it a look of unutterable experience, and of
deep acquaintance with grief and passion. Not even the lovely smile that
crept about the dimples of her mouth could hide this shadow of sin and
sorrow. It shone even in the light of the glorious eyes, it was present
in the air of majesty, and it seemed to say: "Behold me, lovely as no
woman was or is, undying and half-divine; memory haunts me from age to
age, and passion leads me by the hand--evil have I done, and from age to
age evil I shall do, and sorrow shall I know till my redemption comes.
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