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. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. ” His voice sounded muffled and heavy, as if he had gone to bed. But a doll that rolled its eyes and had flaxen hair! Except for the manual labour—there had been natives to fetch and carry—she and Cosette were sisters in loneliness.
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