Jonty Claypole

And this is generally seen to be a self-portrait.

She was small, though not positively short.

She might easily be overlooked, but would not easily be forgotten.

Her figure was slight and well-made, but appeared almost high-shouldered through a habitual shrugging stoop.

Her features were regular and pleasing.

As a child, she had been very pretty and might have continued so, but for a fixed paleness and an expression not exactly of pain, but languid and preoccupied to a painful degree.

Yet even now, if at any time she became thoroughly aroused and interested, her sleepy eyes would light up with wonderful brilliancy, her cheeks glow with warm colour, her manner become animated and drawing herself up to her full height, she would look more beautiful than ever she did as a child.

She also knew that people thought her clever and that her little copies of verses were handed about and admired.

Touching these same verses, it was the amazement of everyone what could make her poetry so brokenhearted, as was mostly the case.

Some pronounced that she wrote very foolishly about things she could not possibly understand.

Some wondered if she really had any secret source of uneasiness, while some simply set her down as affected.

Perhaps there was a degree of truth in all these opinions.

Sophie, let's take a break.

Sophie, Goblin Market, we know the exact date she writes it.

Well, she can't have written it in a day, but she said it was April 27th, 1859.

But it takes her a while to publish, Sophie, doesn't it?

And why is that?

He says, irregular measure, brackets, introduced to my great regret in its chief willfulness by Coleridge, to which I say, Ruskin, back the hell off, Coleridge.

Yeah.

Yeah.