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with eyes like two bits of night sky, each with a star dissolved in the blue.
Nice description.
some gnomes, by some kobolds, by some goblins.
Interesting he made them all the same. Is that new? Were they separated before this? Or just after?
It was a picture, though, worth seeing—the princess sitting in the nursery with the sky ceiling over her head, at a great table covered with her toys. If the artist would like to draw this, I should advise him not to meddle with the toys. I am afraid of attempting to describe them, and I think he had better not try to draw them. He had better not. He can do a thousand things I can't, but I don't think he could draw those toys. No man could better make the princess herself than he could, though—leaning with her back bowed into the back of the chair, her head hanging down, and her hands in her
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An interesting way to describe the sheer amount of toys. I also like the physical description of her being depressed despite all the toy. Clever use of contrast with the aartist.
She turned and started at full speed, her little footsteps echoing through the sounds of the rain—back for the stairs and her safe nursery. So she thought, but she had lost herself long ago. It doesn't follow that she was lost, because she had lost herself, though.
What?
It was more like the hum of a very happy bee that had found a rich well of honey in some globular flower, than anything else I can think of at this moment.
Very childlike narrative.
That the princess was a real princess you might see now quite plainly; for she didn't hang on to the handle of the door, and stare without moving, as I have known some do who ought to have been princesses but were only rather vulgar little girls. She did as she was told, stepped inside the door at once, and shut it gently behind her.
Theme that good girls do what they are told.
'I tell you to hold your tongue. You are no patriot.'
Goblin nationalism!
He rode a white horse and was taller than any of the men with him.
Of course.
She made and kept a little heaven in that poor cottage on the high hillside for her husband and son to go home to out of the low and rather dreary earth in which they worked.
Rinds me of some of the nonfiction Victorian era works read in class.
