IINo, 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 importantwhat one said, and what one did, and it was a reliefwhen they went to bed. For now she need not thinkabout anybody. She could be herself, by herself.And that was what now she often felt the need of—to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to bealone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glit-tering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with asense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shapedcore of darkness, something invisible to others.Although she continued to knit, and sat upright, itwas thus that she felt herself; and this self havingshed its attachments was free for the strangest ad-ventures. When life sank down for a moment, therange of experience seemed limitless. And to every-body there was always this sense of unlimited re-sources, she supposed; one after another, she, Lily,Augustus Carmichael, must feel, our apparitions, thethings you know us by, are simply childish. Beneath