While she arranges the lace fringes and frills on her white linen dressing gown, which the eminent judge had given her in 1862, also on her birthday, September 19, I invite the reader to take a closer look at her. You will notice that I refrain from calling her a Venus, but nor do I call her a Medusa. Unlike Medusa, she wears her hair brushed smoothly back and fastened just above the nape of her neck. Her eyes are ordinary enough, but have a kindly expression. Her mouth is the sort that appears cheerful even when not smiling, and enjoys that other remarkable gift of showing neither remorse nor regret: one could even say it is devoid of desires, but I will say only what I want to say, and I wish to speak only of remorse and regret. This head, which neither excites nor repels, sits on a body that is tall rather than short, and neither thin nor fat, but in proportion with her build. But I won’t describe her hands just yet. Why should I? You will admire them soon enough, holding pen to paper with slender, idle fingers, two of them adorned with five or six rings.