“Why should you think so?” asked she.
“I cannot tell,” answered I; “except that it appears all like a dream that we were ever there together.”
“It is not so to me,” said Zenobia. “I should think it a poor and meagre nature that is capable of but one set of forms, and must convert all the past into a dream merely because the present happens to be unlike it. Why should we be content with our homely life of a few months past, to the exclusion of all other modes? It was good; but there are other lives as good, or better.
Not, you will understand, that I condemn those who give themselves up to it more entirely than I, for myself, should deem it wise to do.