Brunoro, an old, squinting, paralysed man.
Bonna, a little shrivelled, yellow old woman, with a quiver on her shoulder, a bow in her hand; her grey hair is covered by a helmet and she wears great military boots.

The picture is magical.

There is infinite pathos in the sight of the two withered, crippled, grotesque forms from which all the glamour of manhood and beauty have departed, and infinite awe in the thought of the holy communion of the unconquerable and passionate souls.

I wonder it has not come down to us as one of the great love-stories of the world.
Elements such as these sway the Morals of the Renaissance.
But I am taking Mrs.McMurray too seriously; and it is really not a bad idea to have Carlotta taught type-writing..