the chair in which hilda sat was near the portrait of beatrice cenci,which had not yet been taken from the easel.it is a peculiarity of this picture, that its profoundest expression eludes a straightforward glance, and can only be caught by side glimpses, or when the eye falls casually upon it; even as if the painted face had a life and consciousness of its own, and, resolving not to betray its secret of grief or guilt, permitted the true tokens to come forth only when it imagined itself unseen.no other such magical effect has ever been wrought by pencil.now, opposite the easel hung a looking-glass, in which beatrice's face and hilda's were both reflected.in one of her weary, nerveless changes of position, hilda happened to throw her eyes on the glass, and took in both these images at one unpremeditated glance.she fancied--nor was it without horror--that beatrice's expression, seen aside and vanishing in a moment, had been depicted in her own face likewise, and flitted from it as timorously.
"am i, too, stained with guilt?" thought the poor girl, hiding her face in her hands.