The Portrait Of A Lady Novels & Stories

I bellow. Another servant scurries in, carrying a large, ornate frame. It's the portrait of Aaronne. The one I commissioned myself. She's dressed in white, her silver eyes gazing serenely at the viewer, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders. She looks like an angel. A goddess. A prize worthy of a king. "Finally," I mutter, taking the portrait from the servant. I hold it up, admiring it. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect."

Then: 1893. The frame is larger than the others, the canvas older, cracked with age like dried mud. The woman in the portrait wears the high collar and severe hairstyle of the late nineteenth century, but her face—her face is mine. Not similar. Not reminiscent. The same sharp jawline, the same dark eyes, the same defiant tilt of the chin that I see in my own mirror every morning. The only difference is the expression. She looks afraid. Beneath the portrait, carved into the wooden frame with a precision that looks burned rather than cut, are the words: *The First Mate. Burned for the Purity of the Pack.*

I walk slowly down the corridor, my eyes drifting over the massive family portraits hanging under gilded frames. I pass a portrait of a young, arrogant Victoria, who looks like a spoiled brat. And another portrait of Henry in his prime. But as I reach the very end of the gallery, my feet glue themselves to the floor. My breath catches in my throat. My heart gives a painful thud against my ribs. It is a magnificent, oil-painted portrait of a woman sitting in a garden. She wears a cascading dress of white silk, her blonde hair framed a perfectly sculpted face, and her blue eyes—wide, expressive, and hauntingly deep—stares back at me from the canvas.

Elara was engrossed in her thoughts totally oblivious of what was going on around her but her train of thoughts broke when she felt a soft tap on her shoulder, she looked up only to find a lady staring at her smiling softly. The Lady was of her mother's age, she had serene eyes, purplish eye colour, dark brown wavy hairs, she looked divine even with the little wrinkles on her face. Elara frowned in confusion when that lady pulled out something from her bag, A faded velvet shoulder bag rested against her side, strangely regal despite its age. It was a book, the thing that lady held in her hand was a book, not any ordinary book. It was covered with a white cloth but still any one could guess t

“The boss is always so careful with his private life. And now he brings that lady here?” The other maid laughed softly, a little mockery in her voice. “I think she's the lady in the portrait in his study. right?” “Ahh yess, that’s true. But she looks better in her pictures than in real life. Right now she looks pale like she’d been starving for five years.” They all burst into laughter. Their words slashed through my heart like a sharp knife, but I couldn't move, I couldn’t even speak. My eyes were just blown wide and my jaw dropped like it had fallen into still water.

However, she saw nothing but a picture frame that was flipped down at the bottom of stacked notebooks. Lyzza was so curious that she decided to take the picture frame. Her mouth dropped open when she realized who was in the picture. It was none other than a wedding portrait. The woman looked so beautiful with her sophisticated and aristocratic look, while the groom had the familiar deep-brown eyes and the same intimidating aura. Gideon…

Alice’s case sits there, which Saxon dropped off earlier. She places the gift bag with her books on top, then says, “Wow…” She walks over to the window and looks out at the view of Brooklyn and beyond it the lights of the CBD. Then she turns around, wide-eyed. I look at it through her eyes. I suppose it is impressive. The cream carpet and light-gray suite make the room feel light and airy. The furniture is minimal, with clean lines. She stops and looks up at a large oil painting of a woman dressed in white. It was inspired by the artist John Singer Sargent, not unlike his ‘Portrait of Madame X.’ It’s beautiful, and still takes my breath away whenever I look at it.

It was all I could breathe in, and I realized I could stay there all day and not want to come out. A small clanking sound forcefully snapped me out of my reverie, and when I looked, Ryker was pulling out the portrait from its hidden corner. I heard a small gasp, and it took me a moment to realize that gasp had come from me, and I couldn’t tear my eyes off the breathtaking beauty in front of me. The portrait was a life-like painting of an ethereal woman, sitting regally on a gold covered throne with a crown made of pearls on her head.

With the crate of jewelry in her hands, she transitioned gracefully towards the cash register as she started scanning the item and recording the transaction. My gaze drifted around the lounge while I stood waiting for the woman who had been taking good care of my order. My eye caught a glimpse of an artwork mounted on the wall from the corner. Curiously, I decided to approach it and took a position in front of it. I have read the relevant credits, which identify Frederic Leighton as the artist of Flaming June, the tag line of the painting I am dealing with right now. The lady in this portrait seems to be taking a nap on a veranda on a bright and sunny day. Her stance, in my personal view, se

And some important contacts were displayed on a digital screen near it. The building was big and well furnished inside. There were wall hangings that had some beautiful scenery and some patterns of various colors, prints and all. Ida was fascinated by a particular scenery. It was a black one. That place in the portrait seemed to be dark. That wasn't clear. It was like an empty space with so many cube blocks. There was a hollow tunnel-like pipe that was seen at the back of one of the blocks. That looked very well painted. Then, there was another fabulous portrait. "It is a photograph," Liza said. "Shot by a great photographer-Liza Hynds-That's me," Liza taunted, as Ida gave a weird giggle.