But even to think of movement brought tears of pain to her eyes.

She detached her mind from her predicament, and sank into a warm tropical sea of thought.
She was no real thinker, but she thought much about thinking, and was passionately interested in watching her own mind at work.

Thought was like sleep to her, she sank deeply into it without reaching anything profound, nothing resulted but useless dreams, and a certain comforting and defiant intimacy with herself.
She thought of Richard, and wished that she could have hoed a blessing into every bean of his that she had hoed.

She noted half-consciously and without surprise that the thought of him was beautiful to her.

She could not conjure up his face before her mind, because she always forgot realities, and only remembered dreams.