I shall think of her with gratitude and respect to the end of my days.
One morning, while I was sitting before my completed portrait, inwardly shuddering over the ugliness of it, a suffocating smell of musk was wafted into the studio; it was followed by a sound of rustling garments; and that again was succeeded by the personal appearance of my affectionate sister, with her husband at her heels.

Annabella had got to the end of her stock of apologies, and had come to see me.
She put her handkerchief to her nose the moment she entered the room.
"How do you do, Frank?
Don't kiss me: you smell of paint, and I can't bear it." I felt a similar antipathy to the smell of musk, and had not the slightest intention of kissing her; but I was too gallant a man to say so; and I only begged her to favor me by looking at her husband's portrait.
Annabella glanced all round the room, with her handkerchief still at her nose, and gathered her magnificent silk dress close about her superb figure with her disengaged hand.
"What a horrid place!" she said faintly behind her handkerchief.

"Can't you take some of the paint away?
I'm sure there's oil on the floor.

How am I to get past that nasty table with the palette on it?
Why can't you bring the picture down to the carriage, Frank ?" Advancing a few steps, and looking suspiciously about her while she spoke, her eyes fell on the chimney-piece.

An eau-de-Cologne bottle stood upon it, which she took up immediately with a languishing sigh.
It contained turpentine for washing brushes in.