@edmcndd
"Accept my deepest regrets, if my intrusion has disturbed your desire for seclusion; but I wished to know - when was your last portrait taken? The light, you see, only seeks to serve you jaw; I wish to capture its endeavours and preserve your image at its finest, upon canvas." Hours in England woke fresh as nymphs, shadowless, azure and glorious, they led the sun's steeds on a burning and unclouded course. It was a fine a autumn day as England could boast; which it was to say, it still strived to emulate a tolerable climate. While walking through the garden, feeling sunshine and marking blooming plants, Francisco pondered the vacancy in his life - he wished to be possessed, overwhelmed by the novelty, of a muse; his prized juno, could not tolerate his romantic ideas and her faith, in one hand. If Maria desired to suffocate him with unrestrained spirits, her pretty, neatly-worded phrases, her blooming beauty, he would not protest; but she gave him very little, only the crust of her nature. Warmed by his love, Francisco defied spectra. Like a wandering dog come in front the street, he crept forward and nestled hither; upon the paved path, emerged a princely head.
He knew Percy in name and reputation; Francisco looked upon him, and underwent a discovery, a strong conviction of coming disclosure. With a solemn force pressed on his heart, the expectation of animation breaking up; hitherto he moved forward, he looked. Edmund was very handsome, with the beauty indigenous to the England; he was well-nourished, fair and full of fat. Francisco would believe him a Catholic; he seemed to support a capacity to suffer. He spoke again, feeling himself to grow more excited by the second. "I am Francisco, of Spain; I know my countrymen to be persona non grata, but I exist without the confines of politics; I am an artist, of self-ascribed renowned. Perhaps a portrait may aid you - in the begetting of a sweetheart? Or a fantastic adornment, in your family's much admired, castle."















