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at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - Very late indeed in May, but early
in the morning, Laurel Ammidon lay in bed considering two widely
different aspects of chairs. The day before she had been eleven,
and the comparative maturity of that age had filled her with a
moving disdain for certain fanciful thoughts which had given her
extreme youth a decidedly novel if not an actually adventurous
setting. Until yesterday, almost, she had regarded the various
chairs of the house as beings endowed with life and character; she
had held conversations with some, and, with a careless exterior not
warranted by an inner dread, avoided others in gloomy dusks. All
this, now, she contemptuously discarded. Chairs were - chairs,
things to sit on, wood and stuffed cushions. Yet she was slightly
melancholy at losing such a satisfactory lot of reliable familiars:
unlike older people, victims of the most disconcerting moods and
mysterious changes, chairs could always be counted on to remain
secure in their individual peculiarities.
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