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There leapt into his mind the oddest contrast, a memory of Bensington,
very bright and little--Bensington with his hand amidst the soft breast
feathers of that first great chick, standing in that conventionally
furnished room of his, peering over his spectacles dubiously as cousin
Jane banged the door....
It had all happened in a yesterday of one-and-twenty years.
Then suddenly a strange doubt took hold of him: that this place and
present greatness were but the texture of a dream; that he was dreaming,
and would in an instant wake to find himself in his study again, the
Giants slaughtered, the Food suppressed, and himself a prisoner locked
in. What else indeed was life but that--always to be a prisoner locked
in! This was the culmination and end of his dream. He would wake through
bloodshed and battle, to find his Food the most foolish of fancies, and
his hopes and faith of a greater world to come no more than the coloured
film upon a pool of bottomless decay. Littleness invincible!
So strong and deep was this wave of despondency, this suggestion of
impending disillusionment, that he started to his feet. He stood and
pressed his clenched fists into his eyes, and so for a moment remained,
fearing to open them again and see, lest the dream should already have
passed away....
The voice of the giant children spoke to one another, an undertone to
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