Dreams don't interest him that this should be real is a richer possibility. If it is the case, he'll be disappointed. With no decision made, no motivation at all, he begins to move towards the nearest of the three bedroom windows and experiences such ease and lightness in his tread that he suspects at once he's dreaming or sleepwalking. In fact, he's alert and empty-headed and inexplicably elated. He doesn't feel tired, despite the hour or his recent labours, nor is his conscience troubled by any recent case. It's as if, standing there in the darkness, he's materialised out of nothing, fully formed, unencumbered. He has no idea what he's doing out of bed: he has no need to relieve himself, nor is he disturbed by a dream or some element of the day before, or even by the state of the world. He stands there, naked by the bed - he always sleeps naked - feeling his full height, aware of his wife's patient breathing and of the wintry bedroom air on his skin. He's never done such a thing before, but he isn't alarmed or even faintly surprised, for the movement is easy, and pleasurable in his limbs, and his back and legs feel unusually strong. It's not clear to him when exactly he became conscious, nor does it seem relevant. Some hours before dawn Henry Perowne, a neurosurgeon, wakes to find himself already in motion, pushing back the covers from a sitting position, and then rising to his feet. Cheuse Reviews McEwan's Earlier Novel 'Atonement'
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