From a Degas painting

Face pressed against the red arm chair, she leans looking at nothing with an inward gaze, lips slightly parted, auburn hair agleam under the softened light. It seems she may have griefs too nebulous to speak aloud. The highlights of her red dress brightly flash like flames, but her white collar coolly vows her purity. Her troubled look, downcast, reaches me through clouds of years gone by. I long to know her woes, her inner thoughts - to know why, in the failing winter light she leans, arms folded, with a face so taut. Is it the weary weight of woman's wrongs oppressing all the joy for which she longs?

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