famous painting portrait

famous painting portrait
famous jesus painting
famous animal painting
famous claude monet painting
flower oil painting
¡¡¡¡'I never heard anything like this person in my life!' exclaimed Miss Murdstone. ¡¡¡¡'And when you had made sure of the poor little fool,' said my aunt - 'God forgive me that I should call her so, and she gone where YOU won't go in a hurry - because you had not done wrong enough to her and hers, you must begin to train her, must you? begin to break her, like a poor caged bird, and wear her deluded life away, in teaching her to sing YOUR notes?' ¡¡¡¡'This is either insanity or intoxication,' said Miss Murdstone, in a perfect agony at not being able to turn the current of my aunt's address towards herself; 'and my suspicion is that it's intoxication.' ¡¡¡¡Miss Betsey, without taking the least notice of the interruption, continued to address herself to Mr. Murdstone as if there had been no such thing. ¡¡¡¡'Mr. Murdstone,' she said, shaking her finger at him, 'you were a tyrant to the simple baby, and you broke her heart. She was a loving baby - I know that; I knew it, years before you ever saw her - and through the best part of her weakness you gave her the wounds she died of. There is the truth for your comfort, however you like it. And you and your instruments may make the most of it.
oil painting' ¡¡¡¡'Allow me to inquire, Miss Trotwood,' interposed Miss Murdstone, 'whom you are pleased to call, in a choice of words in which I am not experienced, my brother's instruments?' ¡¡¡¡'It was clear enough, as I have told you, years before YOU ever saw her - and why, in the mysterious dispensations of Providence, you ever did see her, is more than humanity can comprehend - it was clear enough that the poor soft little thing would marry somebody, at some time or other; but I did hope it wouldn't have been as bad as it has turned out. That was the time, Mr. Murdstone, when she gave birth to her boy here,' said my aunt; 'to the poor child you sometimes tormented her through afterwards, which is a disagreeable remembrance and makes the sight of him odious now. Aye, aye! you needn't wince!' said my aunt. 'I know it's true without that.'