There will be something different about the way she looks at things. Her eyes will widen in the light as in the darkness and her hair is tattered. She will be the older one in the asylum: where mad children play, but young women are meant for the brothels, and Alice is neither here nor there. You could say she's in a different world.
She will carve a bird into her writing desk, and ask why, why, why, and four o'clock is always tea time. She isn't allowed near the kitchens, for the last time she came there and one of the cooks took out a large knife, she suddenly came out of her dazed, frantic, wide-eyed staring and screamed a strange word, Vorpal! Vorpal!
Another time a cook lit the stove with too much gas on and the fire sent her into anxious terrors that could not be calmed for hours.
She will sit in the dark for hours only to suddenly scream that she is afraid of the dark. She will anxiously await her tea, await her tea, and if it is late she will chatter on about the white rabbit and his watch and where did he go? She can't find him.
"It's my unbirthday, you know," she whispered once, a feeble smile tracing her wan lips. The weakness of her breath would surprise you. She was a ghost in this world. What was she in hers?