oil painting artist

stuff gown, her check apron, White handkerchief, and cap. She was
intent on her work, in which her whole thoughts seemed absorbed: on
her hard forehead, and in her commonplace features, was nothing either
of the paleness or desperation one would have expected to see
marking the countenance of a woman who had attempted murder, and whose
intended victim had followed her last night to her lair, and (as I
believed), charged her with the crime she wished to perpetrate. I
was amazed-confounded. She looked up, while I still gazed at her: no
start, no increase or failure of colour betrayed emotion,

consciousness of guilt, or fear of detection. She said 'Good
morning, Miss,' in her usual phlegmatic and brief manner; and taking
up another ring and more tape, went on with her sewing.
'I will put her to some test,' thought I: 'such absolute
impenetrability is past comprehension.'
'Good morning, Grace,' I said. 'Has anything happened here? I
thought I heard the servants all talking together a while ago.'
'Only master had been reading in his bed last night; he fell asleep
with his candle lit, and the curtains got on fire; but, fortunately,