“But he had seen, from the way she had lain stretched on the sofa before waking, that even in sleep Henrietta was being exposed to unfamiliar sensation. She had lain, hair hanging down, like someone in a new element, a conjurer’s little girl levitated, rigid on air, her very sleep wary. But now she woke, her manner at once took on a touch of clear-sighted, over-riding good sense, like Alice’s throughout Wonderland. She might marvel, but nothing, thought Leopold, would ever really happen to her.”
elizabeth bowen, the house in paris (1935), p.28.
(via sketchofthepast)
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