She would not say of any one in the world now that they were this
or were that. She felt very young; at the same time unspeakably
aged. She
sliced like a knife through everything; at the same time was outside,
looking on. She had a perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs,
of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the
feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day. Not
that she thought herself clever, or much out of the ordinary. How she
had got through life on the few twigs of knowledge Fraulein Daniels
gave them she could not think. She knew
nothing; no language, no history; she scarcely read a book now,
except memoirs in bed; and yet to her it was absolutely absorbing;
all this; the cabs passing; and she would not say of Peter, she would
not say of herself, I am this, I am that.