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My Lady’s Garden (1905)
A woman in a flowing Victorian dress stands among lush garden blooms, sunlight dappling her sleeves. Her gaze lingers on something unseen, fingers brushing petals with quiet intent. The air hums with unspoken longing, the kind that lingers in green shadows and half-turned shoulders.
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A Cavatina (1888)
A hound lies curled beside a violin, ears pricked as if catching the last fading note. The instrument rests abandoned—someone has just left the room. The dog’s gaze lingers where the music hung in the air, waiting for it to return.
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Waiting (1860)
A woman stands by the window, her hand resting lightly on the sill. The light catches the folds of her dress, the quiet tension in her fingers. She’s not just looking out—she’s listening, poised between hope and resignation. The room holds its breath with her.
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Stewart Harrison’s The Iceberg – The Seamstress (1860)
A woman sits hunched over her sewing, fingers working swiftly. Behind her, the jagged silhouette of an iceberg looms—cold, distant, yet inseparable from her quiet labor. The thread in her hands seems fragile against the vast, indifferent ice.
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A Solicitation (1878)
A woman leans forward on a marble bench, her fingers tracing the edge of an open letter. Sunlight spills across the mosaic floor, catching the folds of her draped gown. The air hums with unspoken tension—a quiet plea hangs between the words on the page and her lowered gaze.
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Pomps And Vanities (1917)
A woman draped in lavish silks gazes past the viewer, her expression unreadable. The opulence around her—gleaming jewels, rich fabrics—contrasts with something distant in her eyes. Is it weariness? Resignation? The trappings of grandeur seem to weigh heavier than they adorn.
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Ask me no more
A woman turns away, her draped gown catching the light as she lifts a hand in quiet refusal. The marble bench gleams cold beneath her, contrasting the warmth of her averted gaze. Something unspoken lingers in the space between her and the unseen questioner.
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Battledore (1868-1870)
A woman in flowing drapery holds a battledore, poised mid-motion. The folds of her gown ripple with restrained energy, frozen between stillness and action. Victorian elegance meets classical grace, the shuttlecock suspended just beyond the frame—anticipation hangs in the air like an unplayed note.
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Peace Concluded (1856)
A wounded soldier rests by the fire, his wife reading the newspaper’s headline—”Peace.” Their child plays with toy soldiers, oblivious. The dog sleeps at their feet. War is over, but its shadow lingers in the room, quiet and heavy. Life resumes, though nothing will be quite the same.