I sit on the sofa looking at the wall in front of me. Hundreds of images cover the wall.
A young brown girl. The book does not say anywhere that she is brown. In fact, she is English. But her great-great-aunt – or was it another relation? – used to wash the socks of tramps.
An old king has a friend who speaks five languages. He is a fantastic man who takes children out all the time.
The progressive school. Imagine being in whatever lessons you like, if you like.
A cedar tree. I don’t even know what a cedar tree is.
Scenes from the book play on my mind-reel.
Conversations. Abstract ideas.
I am not sitting in a sofa dressed in my night clothes. I am out in a world about which I know nothing. I am soaring over the mountains thinking about how very glad I am that the Prince of Bergania is so different from the Prince of Transjordania.
And then someone walks into the room and frowns at me, puzzled. And I realise that there are no cedar trees, princes or stinky tramps’ socks in front of me. There is a white wall and a person waiting for me to get done with my bath so that I am presentable.
Yes, I just finished reading The Dragonfly Pool.
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