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THE flame crept up the portrait line by line / As it lay on the coals in the silence of night's profound, / And over the arm's incline, / And along the marge of the silkwork superfine, / And gnawed at the delicate bosom's defenceless round.
Then I vented a cry of hurt, and averted my eyes; / The spectacle was one that I could not bear, / To my deep and sad surprise; / But, compelled to heed, I again looked furtive-wise / Till the flame had eaten her breasts, and mouth, and hair.