THE WINDOWlooking back over his shoulder as sheMildredcarriedhim out, and she was certain that he was thinking,we are not going to the Lighthouse to-morrow;and she thought, he will remember that allhis life.11

No, she thought, putting together some of thepictures he had cut out—a refrigerator, a mowingmachine, a gentleman in evening dress—childrennever forget. For this reason, it was so important[%]what one said, and what one did, and it was arelief when they went to bed. For now she neednot think about anybody. She could be herself,by herself. And that was what now she often feltthe need of—to think; well not even to think.To be silent; to be alone. All the being and thedoing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated;and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, tobeing oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness,something invisible to others. Although she con-tinued to knit, and sat upright, it was thus thatshe felt herself; and this self having shed itsattachments,[%]was free for the strangest adventures.When life sank down for a moment, the range ofexperience seemed limitless. And to everybodythere was always this sense of unlimited resources,she supposed; one after another, she, Lily,99
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