AsIturnedfromthewindow，myeyesalightedontheportrait。Ithadfallendead，likeacandleaftersunrise。itfollowedmewitheyesofpaint。Iknewittobelike，andmarvelledatthetenacityoftypeinthatdecliningrace。butthelikenesswasswallowedupindifference。Irememberedhowithadseemedtomeathingunapproachableinthelife，acreatureratherofthepainter’scraftthanofthemodestyofnature，andImarvelledatthethought，andexultedintheimageofOlalla。BeautyIhadseenbefore，andnotbeencharmed，andIhadbeenoftendrawntowomen，whowerenotbeautifulexcepttome。butinOlallaallthatI
desiredandhadnotdaredtoimaginewasunited。
Ididnotseeherthenextday，andmyheartachedandmyeyeslongedforher，asmenlongformorning。Butthedayafter，whenI
returned，aboutmyusualhour，shewasoncemoreonthegallery，andourlooksoncemoremetandembraced。Iwouldhavespoken，I
wouldhavedrawnneartoher。butstronglyasshepluckedatmyheart，drawingmelikeamagnet，somethingyetmoreimperiouswithheldme。andIcouldonlybowandpassby。andshe，leavingmysalutationunanswered，onlyfollowedmewithhernobleeyes。