'Yes, it is like her, but I never observed it before.' 'A very striking resemblance,' he said, 'only she has more mind in her face.'" "That enchanting picture like me!" I exclaimed, "impossible! There is, there can be no likeness.

It is nothing but association.

He knows I am the flower-girl of the house, and that is the reason he thought of me." I tried to speak with indifference, but my voice trembled with delight.
The next morning, when I came in from the garden, all laden with flowers, an irresistible impulse drew me to the library.

It was very early.

The hush of repose still lingered over the household, and that particular apartment, in which the silent eloquence of books, paintings, and statues hung like a solemn spell, seemed in such deep quietude, I started at the light echo of my own footsteps.
I stole with guilty consciousness towards the picture, in whose lineaments the fastidious eye of Ernest Linwood had traced a similitude to mine.