The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 225: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

LORD AND LADY SACKVILLE 207 countenance every feature of which was so faultless in its chiselling and so classic in its style of beauty, those eyes of such tender melting blue that not even the hyacinth on India’s fields could compare therewith, those lips of such delicious redness and dewy moisture, ever remaining the least thing apart so as not only to give a softly sensuous expression to the countenance, but also to afford a glimpse of teeth whiter than the pearls of the East; then, continuing this survey, to trace the swanlike curvature of that snowy neck, the voluptuous fulness of those sloping and softly rounded shoulders, the grandeur of that bust which swelled into a luxuriance more ample than sculptural richness ever set forth, rising like hemispheres of polished alabaster in their well-divided contours, yet with that hue of life wherein the marble can never rival the living form, and appearing to the look full of glowing ardour, warmth, and passion; then, still proceeding with the survey, to mark the wasplike symmetry of the waist, and the robust proportions of the naked arms, so admirably rounded, so polished, and so white; then, with descending look, to gather from the folds of the drapery an outline or shadowing forth of the splendid symmetry of all the lower limbs, and to finish the survey with a view of the well-rounded but slender ankle, and of the long shapely foot resting on the very ottoman where he sat,—oh, thus to wander over the beauties of that woman and linger on all her charms in detail from head to foot, was it not indeed sufficient to crown the happiness of any man, to know that this transcendent being was his own? ‘““Now I feel happy once more,—as happy as I was wont to be,” said Horace, taking his wife’s hands in both his own and playing with the long tapering fingers so beauti- fully crowned with the arching nails of pellucid rosiness. “Thou art indeed wondrously beautiful, my Venetia; and I am rejoiced that, amidst the whirl of pleasure and dissi- pation, we have at length found an hour’s leisure to be alone with each other thus.”’ “Yes, I love thee, my Horace — O God! I love thee,”’ exclaimed Venetia, suddenly throwing her arms around his neck as if with the impulse of frenzied violence; then as a strong shudder again swept through her form, she cried, almost with accents of despair, ‘“‘ Ah! would to God that EOMNIC OOO