'I also possess a first edition of the Epigrams of Martial--the Venice
one, printed by Windelin of Speyer, in folio. This is it. The clasps are
by a master hand.'
Sperelli listened and looked in a sort of stupor that changed by degrees
into horror and distress. His eyes were continually drawn to a portrait
of Elena hanging on the wall against the red damask background.
'That is Elena's portrait by Frederick Leighton. But now, look at this!
The frontispiece, the headings, the initial letters, the marginal
ornaments combine all that is most perfect in the matter of erotic
iconography. Look at the clasps!'
The binding was exquisite. Shark-skin, wrinkled and rough as that which
surrounds the hilts of Japanese sabres covered the sides and back; the
clasps and bosses, of richly silvered bronze, were chased with
consummate elegance, and were worthy to rank with the best work of the
sixteenth century.
'The artist, Francis Redgrave, died in a lunatic asylum. He was a young
genius of great promise. I have all his studies. I will show them to
you.'
The collector warmed to his subject. He went away to fetch the portfolio
from the next room. His gait was somewhat jerky and uncertain, like that
of a man who already carries in his system the germ of paralysis, the
first touch of spinal disease; his body remained rigid without following
the movement of his limbs, like the body of an automaton.
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