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  • "Are you mad, me—ah, it is unbelievable, me as the Mother of God!" she
  • exclaimed and laughed again. "Wait a moment, I will show you another picture
  • of myself, one that I myself have painted, and you shall copy it."
  • Her head appeared in the window, luminous like a flame under the sunlight.
  • "Gregor!"
  • I hurried up the stairs, through the gallery, into the studio.
  • "Lead him to the bath," Wanda commanded, while she herself hurried away.
  • A few moments passed and Wanda arrived; dressed in nothing but the sable fur,
  • with the whip in her hand; she descended the stairs and stretched out on the
  • velvet cushions as on the former occasion. I lay at her feet and she placed
  • one of her feet upon me; her right hand played with the whip. "Look at me,"
  • she said, "with your deep, fanatical look, that's it."
  • The painter had turned terribly pale. He devoured the scene with his beautiful
  • dreamy blue eyes; his lips opened, but he remained dumb.
  • "Well, how do you like the picture?"
  • "Yes, that is how I want to paint you," said the German, but it was really not
  • a spoken language; it was the eloquent moaning, the weeping of a sick soul, a
  • soul sick unto death.