And all day long, with every one, it was similar, this curious
intrusion of the night into the day, the sub-conscious into the
conscious--a kind of subtle trespassing. The flower of forgotten
dreams rose so softly to the surface of consciousness that they had an
air of sneaking in, anxious to be regarded as an integral part of
normal waking life. Like bubbles in water they rose, discharged their
puff of fragrant air, and disappeared again. Jane Anne, in particular,
was simply radiant all day long, and more than usually clear-headed.
Once or twice she wumbled, but there was big sense in her even then.
It was only the expression that evaded her. Her little brain was a
poor transmitter somehow.
'I feel all endowed to-day,' she informed Rogers, when he
congratulated her later in the day on some cunning act of attention
she bestowed upon him. It was in the courtyard where they all sat
sunning themselves after _dejeuner_, and before the younger children
returned to afternoon school.
'I feel emaciated, you know,' she added, uncertain whether emancipated
was the word she really sought.
'You'll be quite grown-up,' he told her, 'by the time I come back to
little Bourcelles in the autumn.' Little Bourcelles! It sounded, the
caressing way he said it, as if it lay in the palm of his big brown
hand.
Pages:
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431