“Let him have it,” begged my mother, “the boy is not well.”
“Of all things to ask!” replied the old maid. “Let him have it! And who will paint another like this ... or make me as I was then? To-day nobody paints miniatures ... it is a thing of the past, and I also am a thing of the past, and I am not what is represented there!”
My eyes dilated with horror; my fingers released their hold on the picture. I don’t know how I was able to articulate—
“You ... the portrait ... is you...?”
“Don’t you think I am as pretty now, boy? Bah! one is better looking at twenty-three than at ... than at ... I don’t know what, for I have forgotten how old I am!”
My head drooped and I almost fainted again; anyway, my father lifted me in his arms on to the bed, and made me swallow some tablespoons of port.
I recovered very quickly, and never wished to enter my aunt’s room again.
Emilia Pardo Bazan (Nineteenth Century).