"It is a singular sensation the first time that we see the portrait of a friend after death. There is something of mockery in the very pleasure that it brings. The face, which we know to be mouldering in the dust, looks upon us, fresh with hues of health; there are the jewels, and the robe round the graceful form, now decaying in its shroud. Why should the work of man's hand outlast that of his Maker's ? — why should we have the semblance of life, whose breathing reality is no more ? We are not half thankful enough for the forgetfulness inherent even in our affections : did the first agony continue in all its keenness, who could endure to live ?"
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Francesca Carrara
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