too unreal
And Wendla lies on her back, soiled cotton dress sprawled over her thighs, her legs splayed immodestly. She clutches his hand, Melchior's hand and feel his plump fingers and sweaty palms against hers. She is enthralled with his voice, his expressive speech, his dark eyes that focus on her and not any other girls or a thousand little distractions. He speaks and she listens, then drifts off into a land she know she has been before, a place so close, and yet behind the wall of dreams. I am infatuated, Wendla tells herself, willing herself to believe that with all her might this is not love, not the kind of love that brought Inge the baby. Of course not, for Wendla is a child, and so is her wonderful Melchior and nothing could come of his stroking her messy hair.