Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting in her arithmetic class, and the London fog and rain made it no better. Once or twice she had lifted her blonde head to at least pretend she was paying attention to the lesson, but in the silence of the classroom she thought,
“This lesson has no pictures or conversation in it, just formulas and sums. What is the use of a lesson without pictures or conversation? I shan’t learn this way.”
So she was roaming in her own mind, drawing with her black pen on lined paper, and creating little pictures and conversations of her own. She considered whether she should turn around and tell off the girls that were whispering about and to her, or if it was worth the trouble to ask to go to the lavatories so she could have someplace quiet to cry.
When suddenly, a little white rabbit, in the corner of her eye, caught her attention.
There was nothing so remarkable in this, nor did Alice think it odd that there was a rabbit in her school (Afterwards she thought to herself that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time she paid no attention), she only started to wonder when the rabbit turned and hopped away with Alice’s very own white kid gloves in it’s mouth.
Without a second thought, Alice grabbed her notebook and pen and raced out the door, red converse pounding the floor.
