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Seamstress Sewing In An Interior
A woman sits by the window, needle in hand, sunlight pooling around her. The quiet rhythm of stitching fills the room, threads weaving through fabric like time through the day. The air holds the weight of routine, the unspoken stories in every careful pull of the needle.
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A Garden Stroll (1877)
A woman in rustling silk pauses between rose bushes, sunlight dappling her parasol. The garden hums with bees as her gloved fingers brush a blossom—that suspended moment when afternoon lingers before fading into evening.
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Portrait of Kathleen Cowan (1900)
A woman gazes past the viewer, her dark dress melting into the shadows. Light catches the curve of her cheek, the hint of a secret playing at her lips. The brushstrokes suggest movement—as if she might turn away at any moment.
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A Modern Magdalen (about 1888)
A woman leans forward, her face half-hidden in shadow. The loose brushstrokes blur her features, but the intensity in her posture lingers—neither penitent nor seductive, just present. The background melts away, leaving only the weight of her stillness.
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Lachrymae (1894–95)
A woman draped in flowing white leans against a marble column, her face hidden. The folds of her gown pool around her like liquid sorrow. She grips a withered wreath—mourning made tangible. The air feels heavy with unspoken grief.
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Miss Betty Pollock (1911)
A young woman in a flowing blue dress gazes pensively into the distance, her delicate fingers resting lightly on a book. The soft light catches the folds of her gown, hinting at quiet contemplation. There’s an air of mystery in her half-turned pose—what thoughts linger behind those distant eyes?
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Woman Reading
A woman leans into the lamplight, absorbed in her book. The pages glow against the dim room, her stillness cutting through the soft brushstrokes. There’s a quiet intensity here—not just reading, but being pulled into another world while the paint itself seems to breathe around her.
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The letter (ca.1880-90)
A woman sits absorbed in a letter, her face half-lit by the dim interior light. The paper in her hands holds secrets, joys, or sorrows—her stillness speaks volumes. The room around her fades into shadow, leaving only the quiet intensity of that moment suspended between sender and reader.
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Miss Edith Bryant (circa 1931)
A woman gazes past the frame, her expression unreadable—neither smiling nor solemn. The soft light catches the folds of her dress, the curve of her cheek. There’s a quiet tension in her stillness, as if she’s waiting for something just beyond view.