[A nightmare. Rosalind flits a glance toward Robert, knowing in that seamless way what it can mean, when a dream is called a nightmare, even if it does not then follow that the dream must mean that.
Some dreams are merely overgrown restlessness, after all. But some others . . . ah. Some others are so much more, or may grow into such, however humble their birth.]
Come. [Her hand passes over Robert's arm and Elizabeth's hand in a brush, a distant cousin of a gesture that might waft fumes or flick filmy sheets of tracing paper, before she pads toward the kitchen and beckons they follow.] No need to crowd the door. You can speak of it over tea.
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Some dreams are merely overgrown restlessness, after all. But some others . . . ah. Some others are so much more, or may grow into such, however humble their birth.]
Come. [Her hand passes over Robert's arm and Elizabeth's hand in a brush, a distant cousin of a gesture that might waft fumes or flick filmy sheets of tracing paper, before she pads toward the kitchen and beckons they follow.] No need to crowd the door. You can speak of it over tea.