He
placed on his study table, as if it were a photograph of Odette, a reproduction
of Jethro's daughter. He would gaze in admiration at the large eyes, the
delicate features in which the imperfection of the skin might be surmised, the
marvellous locks of hair that fell along the tired cheeks; and, adapting to the
idea of a living woman what he had until then felt to be beautiful on aesthetic
grounds, he converted it into a series of physical merits which he was
gratified to find assembled in the person of one whom he might ultimately
possess. The vague feeling of sympathy which attracts one to a work of art, now
that he knew the original in flesh and blood of Jethro's daughter, became a
desire which more than compensated, thenceforward, for the desire which
Odette's physical charms had at first failed to inspire in him. When he had
sat for a long time gazing at the Botticelli, he would think of his own living
Botticelli, who seemed even lovelier still, and as he drew towards him the
photograph of Zipporah he would imagine that he was holding Odette against his
heart.
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