Now Fanny Elmer passed beneath the window.
She was on her way to sit to Nick Bramham the painter.
She sat in a flowered Spanish shawl, holding in her hand a yellow novel.
"A little lower, a little looser, so--better, that's right," Bramham mumbled, who was drawing her, and smoking at the same time, and was naturally speechless.

His head might have been the work of a sculptor, who had squared the forehead, stretched the mouth, and left marks of his thumbs and streaks from his fingers in the clay.

But the eyes had never been shut.

They were rather prominent, and rather bloodshot, as if from staring and staring, and when he spoke they looked for a second disturbed, but went on staring.

An unshaded electric light hung above her head.
As for the beauty of women, it is like the light on the sea, never constant to a single wave.