Books are the mirrors of the soul. For now she need not think of anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think, well not even think. To be silent, to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated, and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shoped core of darkness, something invisible to others, and this self having shed its attachments was free for strangest adventures.