At the time when Wendy first let her intrigued self nervously analyse the gentle face of this girl – this girl with a refined, almost as if carved out of the best pine wood with the most care and love, sharp jaw, a delicate nose and wanderingly bright little eyes (eyes underneath a strip of the longest, darkest eyelashes. Glinting.) – she could say that she liked her. “Love” was a stretch, a terrifying stretch; though now, it felt almost as an insult to the system to label the feeling as anything else.