The nightmare of reality and Sunday and the inexplicably jerky movements of humanity, the too bright colours of Fall, the shocking noises and calls and cries all stood away, it appears, from her bed, one might say, and she slept, dreamless, as it were. It was a talent, God-given almost, it protected her like a thin and pliable armour from tip to toe, it was invisible and fastened by magic transparent zippers. At night in a peopleless sleep, the vacant sleep of the very young, she had no need of it, but the daytime hours lasted from morning till night and the thing was priceless. Her consciousness was not involved, however, and her mind and senses were in the clear like two little spires sticking up and out of a ground fog.
— Maude Hutchins, Victorine ‎- visions of swastikas in my head

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