She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. It was very much like a real house, with one central stalagmite that looked like a column and a waterfall that served when she wanted to bathe. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. I was—I was a corespondent. ‘You! Have you pen and paper?’ ‘Pen and paper now, is it?’ grumbled the old man as he shuffled down the hall.
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