As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.

Even the names of the books gave me food for thought.

Looked at again and again half consciously by a mind thinking of something else, any object mixes itself so profoundly with the stuff of thought that it loses its actual form and recomposes itself a little differently in an ideal shape which haunts the brain when we least expect it.

We are only lightly covered with buttoned cloth; and beneath these pavements are shells, bones and silence.