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Then, indeed, he was unable to appreciate the powers of the writer; or, rather, he neither knew nor cared whether the book had a writer at all. He probably thought it not half so fine as some rant of Macpherson about dark-browed Foldath, and white-bosomed Strinadona.
Her face was Heaven's bow in-showers; Her dark hair flowed around it, like the streaming clouds, Thou wert the dweller of souls, white-handed Strinadona!" Wallace rose from his chair, which had been placed near her. She had deigned that these tender words of the bard of Morven should suggest to her hearer the observation of her own resembling beauties.
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