There, on a low bed, the sheet flung back, dressed in a pair of pink one-piece zippyjamas, lay Lenina, fast asleep and so beautiful in the midst of her curls, so touchingly childish with her pink toes and her grave sleeping face, so trustful in the helplessness of her limp hands and melted limbs, that the tears came to his eyes. With an infinity of quite unnecessary precautions-for nothing short of a pistol shot could have called Lenina back from her soma-holiday before the appointed time-he entered the room, he knelt on the floor beside the bed. He gazed, he clasped his hands, his lips moved. "Her eyes," he murmured, "Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice; Handlest in thy discourse O! that her hand,