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It stood in a little, old-fashioned, old-world court, back of Bloomsbury. They were a foreign-looking little pair not in their dress, which was truly English in its clumsiness and want of picturesque coloring but their faces were foreign. The contour was peculiar, the setting of the two pairs of eyes un-Saxon. They sat very close together, a grave little couple.
How strong, how beautiful, how un-Saxon it was! I only know that his mother was a Cornish woman. Whence came the intense glowing imagination of the Brontes so unlike the Miss-Austen-like calm of their predecessors? Again, I only know that their mother was a Cornish woman.
He will mark these Norman captains, he will learn their strength and their weakness, their manner of war, and he will come back, not as Edward the King came, a lover of things un-Saxon, but able to warn and to guide us against the plots of the camp-court, which threatens more, year by year, the peace of the world.
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