"Brawne," said Henry.
"Ugh! what a horrible name! Keats and Brawne. Isn't England a funny country? We have beautiful names at home like Norregaard and Friessen and Christinsen and Engel and Röde. You can't say Röde."
Henry tried to say it.
"No. Not like that at all. It's right deep in your throat, listen! Röde—Röde, Röde." She stared in front of her. "And on a summer morning the water comes up Holman's Canal and the green tiles shine in the water and the ships clink-clank against the side of the pier. The ships are riding almost into Kongens Nytorv and all along the Square in the early morning sun they are going." She pulled herself up with a little jump.
"All the same, although he was called Keats there are lovely words in what I was reading." She turned to the book again, repeating to herself:
"All my clear-eyed fish, golden or rainbow-sided,
My grotto-sands tawny and gold."
"'Tawny.' What's that?"
"Rich red-brown," said Henry.
"Do I say most of the words right?"
"Yes, nearly all."