"Along the lane, beneath the trees. The table was bare today and sopped with dew. She wrote 'Hester Fallowes' in the dew. This table is getting at me, she thought. Some symbol of something, some metaphor, an algebraic meaning. Una should be here. Oh God, I wish Una was here! She walked regretfully, all around the table, thinking of Una, and then marched on. It's Alice in Wonderland here, she thought. In a minute there'll be a white rabbit.
There was not, but around the next bend in the lane someone was seated head-on to Hetty, on a big white horse."
I think this is simply sublime. I think when someone is able to write in such a way, they must be happy, but I'm afraid life's not that simple.
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