On his study table, at which he worked, he had placed, as it were a
photograph of Odette, a reproduction of Jethro's Daughter. He would gaze
in admiration at the large eyes, the delicate features in which the
imperfection of her skin might be surmised, the marvellous locks of hair
that fell along her tired cheeks; and, adapting what he had already felt
to be beautiful, on aesthetic grounds, to the idea of a living woman, he
converted it into a series of physical merits which he congratulated
himself on finding assembled in the person of one whom he might,
ultimately, possess. The vague feeling of sympathy which attracts a
spectator to a work of art, now that he knew the type, in warm flesh and
blood, of Jethro's Daughter, became a desire which more than compensated,
thenceforward, for that with which Odette's physical charms had at first
failed to inspire him. When he had sat for a long time gazing at the
Botticelli, he would think of his own living Botticelli, who seemed all
the lovelier in contrast, and as he drew towards him the photograph of
Zipporah he would imagine that he was holding Odette against his heart.
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