“Anna!” she repeated. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. ’ She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. The arrival of the cart at the end of Field Lane, appeared the signal for an attempt at rescue. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. " "And who is its mother?" asked Jonathan, in an eager whisper.
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