The strangest thing was that， almost before he had looked about him， Digory had half forgotten how he hadcome there. At any rate， he was certainly not thinking about Polly， or Uncle Andrew， or even his Mother. He was not in the least frightened， or excited， or curious. If anyone had asked him “Where did you come from？” he would probably have said， “I‘ve always been here.” That was what it felt like.as if one had always been in that place and never been bored although nothing had ever happened. As he said long afterwards， “It’s not the sort of place where things happen. The trees go on growing， that‘s all.”
After Digory had looked at the wood for a long time he noticed that there was a girl lying on her back at the foot of a tree a few yards away. Her eyes were nearly shut but not quite， as if she were just between sleeping and waking. So he looked at her for a long time and said nothing. And at last she opened her eyes and looked at him for a long time and she also said nothing. Then she spoke， in a dreamy， contented sort of voice.
“I think I’ve seen you before，” she said.
“I rather think so too，” said Digory. “Have you been here long？”
“Oh， always，” said the girl. “At least.I don‘t know.a very long time.”