leonardo da vinci mona lisa

leonardo da vinci mona lisa
was there; the patient lay still, and seemingly lethargic; her livid
face sunk in the pillows: the fire was dying in the grate. I renewed
the fuel, re-arranged the bedclothes, gazed awhile on her who could
not now gaze on me, and then I moved away to the window.
The rain beat strongly against the panes, the wind blew
tempestuously: 'One lies there,' I thought, 'who will soon be beyond
the war of earthly elements. Whither will that spirit- now
struggling to quit its material tenement- flit when at length
released?'
In pondering the great mystery, I thought of Helen Burns,
leonardo da vinci mona lisa
recalled her dying words- her faith- her doctrine of the equality of
disembodied souls. I was still listening in thought to her
well-remembered tones- still picturing her pale and spiritual
aspect, her wasted face and sublime gaze, as she lay on her placid
deathbed, and whispered her longing to be restored to her divine
Father's bosom- when a feeble voice murmured from the couch behind:
'Who is that?'
I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days: was she reviving? I
went up to her.
'It is I, Aunt Reed.'
'Who- I?' was her answer. 'Who are you?' looking at me with leonardo da vinci mona lisa