That Hideous Strength by C.S. Lewis

rooks could be heard. A long time passed.
         When at length the other girl returned Jane now conceived for her that admiration which women, more often than is supposed, feel for other women. It would be nice, Jane thought, to be like that-so straight, so fit to be mounted on a horse, and so tall.
         "Is . . . is Miss Ironwood in?" said Jane.
         "Are you Mrs. Studdock?" said the girl.
         "Yes," said Jane.
         "I will bring you to her at once," said the other. "We have been expecting you. My name is Camilla Denniston."
         Jane followed her. They went a long way before Camilla knocked at a door and stood aside for Jane to enter, saying "She has come." And Jane went in; and there was Miss Ironwood dressed all in black and sitting with her hands folded on her knees.
         The hands were big and boney, though they did not suggest coarseness. She was perhaps nearer sixty than fifty.
         "What is your name, young lady?" said Miss Ironwood, taking up a pencil and a note-book.
         "Jane Studdock."
         "Are you married?"
         "Yes."
         "Does your husband know you have come to us?"
         "No."
         "And your age, if you please?"
         "Twenty-three."
         "And now," said Miss Ironwood, "what have you to tell me?"
         Jane took a deep breath. "I've been having bad dreams and-and feeling depressed lately."
         Jane's narrative-she did not do it very well-took some time. While she was speaking she kept her eyes fixed on Miss Ironwood's large hands and her black skirt and the pencil and the note-book. As she proceeded she saw Miss Ironwood's hand cease to write and the fingers wrap themselves round the pencil: immensely strong fingers they seemed. And they tightened, as if under the influence of some stifled emotion, and broke the pencil in two. Jane stopped and looked up at Miss Ironwood's face. The grey eyes were still looking at her with no change of expression.
         "Pray continue, young lady," said Miss Ironwood. Jane resumed her story. When she had finished, Miss
         Ironwood put a number of questions. After that she became silent for so long that Jane said:  "Is there, do you think, anything very serious wrong with me?"
         "There is nothing wrong with you," said Miss Ironwood. "You mean it will go away?"
         "I should say probably not."
         "Is it something that can't be cured?"
         "The reason you cannot be cured is that you are not ill."
         "But there must be something wrong. It's surely not natural to have dreams like that.
         There was a pause. "I think," said Miss Ironwood, "I had better tell you the whole truth."
         "Yes, do," said Jane in a strained voice. "And I will begin by saying this," continued Miss Ironwood. "You are a more important person than you imagine."
         Jane said nothing, but thought inwardly, "She is humoring me. She thinks I am mad."
         "What was your maiden name?" asked Miss Ironwood. "Tudor," said Jane.
         "The Warwickshire branch of the family?"
         "Yes."
         "Did you ever read a little book by an ancestor of yours about the Battle of Worcester?"
         "No. Father had a copy-the only copy, I think."
         "There are at least two others: one is in this house. Your ancestor gave a full and, on the whole, correct account of the battle, which he says he completed on the same day on which it was fought. But he was not at it."
         Jane, who had not really been following this, looked at Miss Ironwood.
         "If he was speaking the truth," said Miss Ironwood, "and we believe that he was, he dreamed it. Do you understand?"
         "Dreamed about the battle?"
         "Yes. But dreamed it right. He saw the real battle in his dream."
         "I don't see the connection."
         "Vision-the power of dreaming realities-is sometimes hereditary," said Miss Ironwood.
         Something seemed to be