The House-Maid, Hattie:
There she stood, with the stance of a ballerina, and the air of a Rothschild. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, a butter-gold cloud. The perfect oval of her face darkened by a scowl, reflecting the toll of these sittings, and especially those dark, defiant eyes. Finally, my eyes rested on the fine Indian muslin which I had assisted Mr Whistler to purchase. I thought of the far away, exotic land which the cloth had been transported from, and my mind flickered back to Miss Cicely’s stories about her holiday in India. She had spoken about riding in a carriage drawn by an elephant, and eating a fruit with a really sweet flesh. A mango she called it, if my memory serves me correctly.
I shrank away from the door, as envy began to infiltrate my mind. I would have traded my soul to be her! To…
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