A more accurate metaphor would be that it is like watching my finest artwork gain a life of its own. Her own, I suppose.

[ she's curious about his own interest. Here at least, an Irene free of a Moriarty. Not one and the same; though the woman sounds different than how Jamie had painted her.

(Her Irene was half herself; for this woman to be the same, she would need a half of Jamie Moriarty.) ]