Anders Zorn paintings

Anders Zorn paintings
Anne-Francois-Louis Janmot paintings
Allan R.Banks paintings
Andrea Mantegna paintings
grave.
The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up the stairs to light the gas on the upper landing.
``Is Mrs. Archer in?''
``No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in the carriage after luncheon, and hasn't come back.''
With a sense of relief he entered the library and flung himself down in his armchair. The parlour-maid followed, bringing the student lamp and shaking some coals onto the dying fire. When she left he continued to sit motionless, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes fixed on the red grate.
He sat there without conscious thoughts, without sense of the lapse of time, in a deep and grave amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it. ``This was what had to be, then . . . this was what had to be,'' he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom. What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in his rapture.
The door opened and May came in.