Godward Under the Blossom that Hangs on the Bough painting

Godward Under the Blossom that Hangs on the Bough painting
Waterhouse My Sweet Rose painting
Stiltz BV Beauty painting
Picasso Family at Saltimbanquesc painting
noonday, the free air, the streets of Paris, dancing and applause, her tender love passages with the officer— then the priest, the old hag, the dagger, blood, torture, the gibbet— all this passed in turn before her mind, now as a golden vision of delight, now as a hideous nightmare; but her apprehension of it all was now merely that of a vaguely horrible struggle in the darkness, or of distant music still playing above ground but no longer audible at the depth to which the unhappy girl had fallen.
Since she had been here she neither waked nor slept. In that unspeakable misery, in that dungeon, she could no more distinguish waking from sleeping, dreams from reality, than day from night. All was mingled, broken, floating confusedly through her mind. She no longer felt, no longer knew, no longer thought anything definitely— at most she dreamed. Never has human creature been plunged deeper into annihilation.
Thus benumbed, frozen, petrified, scarcely had she remarked at two or three different times the sound of a trap-door opening somewhere above her head, without even admitting a ray of light, and through which a hand had thrown her down a crust of black bread. Yet this was her only surviving communication with mankind— the periodical visit of the jailer.