The Advent of the Unreliable Narrator

In her consideration of the occasional flicker from the traffic without that came to enliven the dark square of the study window, reflecting on the papers strewn over the sill, she felt each episode of brightness as an almost physical remanifestation of the obscure hurt that had darkened such a portion of her life early on, leaving a meagre exercise of force and will dampened as by the stirring of the spring breeze. But even as yet there could be no resurrection of certain winter-damaged limbs, could there not be a new birth nonetheless, she thought, as her eyes fell upon a date in the open book before her and she murmured: "Happy birthday, Henry James."